


The Deep Blue Void

by AngelOfTheMoor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, British Navy, But Not Dean or Cas, Character Death, Community: deancasbigbang, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2014, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Navy, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:43:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelOfTheMoor/pseuds/AngelOfTheMoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1801, Lieutenant Castiel Milton begins an assignment on the <i>HMS Renown</i>. He is delighted to serve under Captain Lucas Fallon, a legendary war hero. But he soon learns that Captain Fallon is a capricious man, a warped version of what he once was. Loath as Castiel is to violate the naval code, he soon finds himself with a difficult choice—support the captain and sink, or act against the captain and swim. He must decide soon, before the scheduled attack on the Spanish in Samana Bay. What happens will forever alter the lives of everyone on board, including three of the ship’s lieutenants: Dean Winchester, Sam Wesson, and Castiel himself.</p><p><span class="u">Note</span>: This fic is quite heavily based on two films in the <i>Horatio Hornblower</i> miniseries, <i>Mutiny</i> and <i>Retribution</i>. All the characters are from <i>SPN</i>, so no familiarity with <i>Horatio Hornblower</i> is required to follow the fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Orientation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ and _Horatio Hornblower_ do not belong to me. Much of this fic is quite heavily based on _Horatio Hornblower_ , and a bit of dialogue is taken from it. Familiarity with it is not needed to follow the fic, though.
> 
> Despite the fact that I took the majority of the plot from _Horatio Hornblower_ , so far this has been the hardest fic for me to write. I hope that I did the idea justice, and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Warnings for past child abuse, violent punishments, and occasional smut.
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful beta [revengingcas](http://revengingcas.tumblr.com/)/[consultingcas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingcas/pseuds/consultingcas), who helped me ensure the story remained coherent and true to character. 
> 
> Thanks so much to my fabulous artist, [mizgoat](http://mizgoat.tumblr.com/), as well! She produced all the art you see here, including the header and dividers. Check out her art masterpost [here](http://mizgoat.livejournal.com/573.html) or [here](http://mizgoat.tumblr.com/post/99556145963/dcbb-art-for-the-deep-blue-void) to see all of her awesome work in one place. In addition to the art included here, her masterpost also includes some lovely sketches!
> 
> Note on Names: Sam's last name is Wesson because he and Dean are cousins. Lucas Fallon is Lucifer.
> 
> All mistakes are my own. If you notice an egregious mistake, feel free to let me know so I can fix it. My sources for definitions are various dictionaries.
> 
> As ever, thanks for reading! You can find me on tumblr [here](http://angelofthemoor.tumblr.com).

Plymouth Sound, June 1801

Castiel Milton sat up straight in the tender, posture rigid. As the men around him rowed, he squinted at the vessel in the distance, the _HMS Renown_. It was a seventy-four gun ship of the line, which classed it as third-rate. He had never before served on such an impressive structure. He had begun his naval career as a midshipman on a fifth-rate frigate, and after his promotion, he had been the second lieutenant on a sixth-rate frigate. On the _Renown_ , he would still hold the position of second lieutenant, but with this assignment he would at least have two other lieutenants underneath him in addition to the midshipmen.

He would miss spending time with Anna and Rachel, his sisters in Chichester, but he was glad to be back on the sea once more, especially when he had the opportunity to serve under one of the Royal Navy’s most legendary captains, Lucas Fallon. Captain Fallon had been instrumental in defeating the Spanish at the Battle of Cape St. Vincent and played a vital role in Admiral Nelson’s victory over the French in the Battle of the Nile. He was one of Great Britain’s war heroes, and merely meeting the man itself would be a great honor.

Excitement swirled through Castiel as the _Renown_ grew closer. When he climbed aboard the ship, he suddenly felt nervous. There would be more people on this ship than any he had served on before, which meant more responsibility. What if he proved unsatisfactory? What if his fellow officers were not as cordial as those he’d worked with before? What if everyone hated him?

These were idle concerns, he told himself. Chances were on his side. With more colleagues on this ship, there was bound to be _someone_ he could befriend.

“Stow those barrels forward on the gun deck!” a nearby lieutenant shouted at the gunner.

When Castiel stepped onto the deck, the lieutenant twisted around to face him. The man had a delicately handsome look about him, freckles dotting his face, green-hazel eyes sparkling in the sun, tufts of fine dirty blonde hair sticking out from underneath his bicorne, yet he bore himself with an air of overt masculinity, as if he felt the need to compensate for his appearance. “Good morning,” Castiel said. He extended his hand. “Milton, second lieutenant.”

The man ignored him and yelled at the sailors. “Look out there! Look out!”

Before he could understand what was happening, Castiel was thrust flat on his back, his breath knocked out of him. The other lieutenant had pinned Castiel’s wrists to the deck as a net filled with barrels swooped by, slicing through the space where Castiel had just been standing.

The man jumped to his feet, dirty blonde queue bouncing behind him. He held out his hand, and Castiel clasped it. “Winchester, third lieutenant,” he announced as he pulled Castiel up.

“An interesting welcoming ceremony, Mr. Winchester,” Castiel commented as he rubbed his wrists.

“My apologies, Mr. Milton. Are you all right?”

Castiel mulled over the question and concluded, “Nothing damaged but my pride, I think.” Being involved in such a spectacle was aggravating, he must admit, but he attempted to make his tone conciliatory.

Mr. Winchester turned to the sailors behind him. “Hey, there, you at the stay tackles! Mind what you’re doing!” He addressed the gunner next. “Mr. Crowley, keep an eye on your men there!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Crowley responded sullenly.

“Mr. Crowley, lay aft here!” Crowley shuffled toward Winchester. “Mr. Crowley,” Winchester berated him, “your recklessness nearly injured one of the ship’s senior officers, not to mention damaging vital supplies.” He narrowed his eyes at the gunner. “And don’t use that tone of voice when replying to an order.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Crowley replied, sounding just as sullen as he had a moment ago.

After Crowley scurried away, Castiel advised the third lieutenant, “Perhaps if the men were better supervised, these accidents would not happen, Mr. Winchester.” Winchester rolled his eyes, and Castiel inwardly bristled. If Winchester resented helpful tips, then his naval career would not progress much further than his current station.

“Captain’s coming off, sir!” someone hollered.

Castiel headed toward the central part of the deck, where everyone would be lining up. “Ass,” he heard Winchester mutter behind him. Castiel resisted the urge to spin around and snap a retort. Such a reaction would not be professional, and it would definitely not make a good first impression on Captain Fallon. Besides, he was above acting in such an immature manner. He joined the rest of the crew for the captain’s inspection and put Mr. Winchester out of his mind.

Captain Fallon strolled onto deck, and Castiel held his breath, awed. Here was the famous man himself, right before Castiel’s eyes, on the same ship as him. The captain held his cap in his hand, and Castiel noted the white streaks amidst Fallon’s golden locks. Everyone silently gazed at the captain, the only sound the clack of Fallon’s boots as he studied the men assembled before him.

Fallon stopped in front of Castiel and asked, his tone abrupt, “Who are you?”

Castiel doffed his hat in salute then replaced it on his head. “Lieutenant Milton, come aboard, sir,” he answered, hoping no one could hear how nervous he was.

“You came aboard in my absence, did you?” Fallon barked.

“I did, sir.”

“Did you report to the first lieutenant?”

Fallon’s tone had grown more heated. Castiel swallowed. “No, sir.”

“In my absence, you should have reported to Mr. Godwin,” Fallon growled. Castiel felt his cheeks redden with mortification. He had been on board for less than ten minutes, yet he had already irked the captain. “Mr. Godwin,” Fallon yelled to someone behind Castiel, “why did Mr. Milton not report to you?” Why would Captain Fallon ask such a question? How could the first lieutenant be responsible for Castiel’s negligent behavior?

“I’m very sorry, sir,” a voice rasped behind Castiel’s ear. “I was unaware that Mr. Milton had come aboard. He should have made himself known. I was forward inspecting the cable anchors.”

“Mr. Milton?” Captain Fallon prompted Castiel.

Castiel raised his eyes as high as he dared, about level with the captain’s chest. “I arrived only a few minutes before you, sir,” he explained. Perhaps a bit of flattery would lessen the captain’s anger with him. “I wished to present myself personally.” Castiel smiled. “And may I say, sir, what an honor it is to serve under a captain with so distinguished a record.” Even though Castiel was attempting to placate the captain, he meant every word. He had been giddy with anticipation since learning of his newest assignment.

“Well, you are welcome, Mr. Milton,” Fallon replied warmly.

“Thank you, sir.”

“In time, you may indeed thank me.” A peculiar steely gleam entered his blue eyes. “Very well.”

Everyone was dismissed, and Castiel frowned as he pondered the captain’s last words. _In time, you may indeed thank me._ What had Captain Fallon meant?

Castiel heard Mr. Winchester snort before mimicking Castiel’s words with exaggerated delight. “What an honor to serve under a captain with such a distinguished record!” He snickered.

“That’s enough, Dean,” someone chided.

Castiel’s ears burned as he descended below deck to find his sleeping quarters then the wardroom. He did not wonder that the gunner accorded Lieutenant Winchester no respect, for Winchester had shown himself to be a most disrespectful person. Apparently he had no qualms about mocking a superior officer. He did not understand why Winchester had belittled him. Why should Castiel not feel honored to serve under Captain Fallon?

Four other individuals occupied the mess when Castiel entered. The man sitting on the bench nearest to him stood up. He was tall, with long legs and shaggy brown hair straining to burst out of his queue. Castiel spotted the man’s hat sitting on the table next to a book. He offered Castiel his hand, and Castiel accepted. “Sam Wesson, fourth lieutenant,” he declared. Castiel recognized his voice as belonging to the party who had chastised Winchester on deck.

“Castiel Milton, second lieutenant,” Castiel said when he released Wesson’s hand.

Wesson’s lips tipped into a brief smile. “Come. I will introduce you to everyone,” Wesson offered. Two steps later, and they were beside a reclining Mr. Winchester, who ignored them as he guzzled a tankard of ale. Wesson knocked a fist on the table, and Winchester recoiled, scowling. “Dammit, Sammy,” he grumbled.

Wesson flushed. “Do not call me Sammy.” Winchester erupted into a full-bellied laugh, and Wesson glared at him. “I thought we should get to know our second lieutenant,” Wesson said.

“No need. We’ve already met,” Winchester spat. Wesson gaped at him.

“Please excuse Dean,” Wesson said. “My cousin lacks basic human courtesy.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “You and Mr. Winchester are cousins?”

“Indeed we are.”

Two cousins serving as lieutenants on the same ship seemed unusual, but Castiel supposed it was not unheard of. It stretched credulity that these two could be cousins, though. Wesson behaved affably, while Winchester was boorish.

“Did I hear you say your Christian name is Castiel?” Winchester inquired. Castiel started, surprised that Winchester had been listening to his earlier conversation with Wesson.

“Yes,” Castiel replied.

“What manner of name is that? Sounds foreign.”

“My parents were religious. They named me after the Angel of Thursday.”

“Seems like a strange choice. I do not envy you. Being raised in a household of religious zealots sounds like hell.”

“Dean!” Wesson exclaimed.

Castiel clenched his fists to still his trembling hands as images of Zachariah Milton flitted through his head. _The_ Reverend _Zachariah Milton_ , Castiel thought bitterly. His mother had died shortly after giving birth to him, leaving Reverend Milton to raise his three children alone. He had run a strict household, focusing his discipline mostly on Castiel. He had been determined for Castiel to become a priest like him, and when at sixteen Castiel had voiced a desire to join the Royal Navy, the Reverend Milton had called him godless, worse than a heathen.

Even with Zachariah Milton dead these past three years, Castiel could not think of his father without a sliver of terror.

No doubt Winchester had meant only to taunt Castiel, but he was closer to the truth than he realized. Growing up in Zachariah Milton’s house had indeed been very much like hell.

Winchester shrugged. “Am I not allowed to express my opinion, Sammy?”

Wesson did not deign to answer his cousin. Instead, he led Castiel across the room to where a dark-skinned man was playing cards with a midshipman. Why was this midshipman in here rather than in the quarters housing the other midshipmen?

Wesson gestured toward the bald man, whom Castiel had been examining. How did an African achieve prominence in His Majesty’s Navy? “This is our first lieutenant, Uriel Godwin. His parents also named him after an angel. Isn’t that right, Mr. Godwin?”

“Indeed it is, Mr. Wesson.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Godwin,” Castiel said. “I apologize for what happened earlier. I did not mean to cause you trouble.”

Godwin grimaced then donned an expression of neutrality. “It was none of your fault, Mr. Milton.” He narrowed his eyes and stated, with a trickle of venom, “I bet you are wondering how someone like me rises to such a prominent position.”

“No—” Castiel attempted to protest, afraid that the first lieutenant had been offended by his scrutiny.

Godwin offered a reassuring smile. “Your curiosity is only natural. I am not an African in the true sense, you see. I was born and raised in London. My father was the youngest of six sons in a minor noble line. He joined a voyage to Africa, and that is where he met my mother. He brought her to England, and they married.”

“Ah. I see.”

Wesson cleared his throat and indicated the midshipman, a blonde-haired youth. “This is Adam Milligan.”

“How do you do, Mr. Milligan?” Castiel asked.

“I am quite well, Mr. Milton, thank you,” Milligan replied. His skittish demeanor contradicted the answer, however. Castiel wondered at the source of Milligan’s uneasiness.

“It is rather uncommon to allow midshipmen in the officers’ mess, is it not?” Castiel queried.

“Yes,” Wesson acknowledged. “But Mr. Milligan is the son of a family friend. Dean and I promised our fathers that we would look after him.”

“I don’t need looking after,” Milligan objected.

“Perhaps not,” Wesson said, tone conciliatory. “But a promise is a promise. Besides, we enjoy having you in here.”

“Yes, we do,” Godwin confirmed.

Godwin and Milligan returned to their card game, and Wesson resumed his seat and opened his book. Castiel found a place to sit then retrieved his journal, quill, and inkwell from underneath his coat and set to documenting his first impressions of the _Renown_.

After supper, Castiel hit the head, needing to relieve himself before settling down for his four hours of sleep. Wesson, who was on watch, waved at him as he passed by. Castiel had almost reached his cabin when a man accosted him. “Well, hello there,” the man slurred. “You must be new.” Castiel backed away as the man took lurching steps toward him, lank blonde hair falling halfway across his face. Castiel’s back collided with the bulkhead, and he had nowhere else to go. The man staggered forward, effectively trapping Castiel against the bulkhead. Castiel detected the thick scent of alcohol on his breath, and his blue eyes held a peculiar glaze. “What’s your name?”

Castiel straightened up to his full height and tried not to look as panicked as he felt. “Castiel Milton. Second lieutenant.”

“Cas-ti-el,” the man leered. He should not be addressing Castiel so familiarly when they had only just met. The man placed a hand next to Castiel’s ear, propping himself up as he leaned toward Castiel. “How about you and I find a way to divert ourselves, hmm?”

Castiel shrank, seized with dread. “I do not quite catch your meaning,” he asserted, although he did. He had heard of such things before, men pleasuring themselves with each other, especially aboard ships, where no other options existed for satisfying base impulses. Buggery, it was called, and it was a most egregious offense for which the punishment was harsh. And according to Father, it violated the moral code of the Lord.

The man smiled suggestively. “Oh, I think you do.” With his free hand, he stroked Castiel’s cheekbone.

Rapid footsteps approached, and Castiel knew the party would stumble upon them seemingly in flagrante. His career would now be ruined because of this unscrupulous man.  

“Dr. Angle,” the newcomer hissed. Castiel turned his head as much as he dared, and his horror intensified when he recognized Mr. Winchester. The third lieutenant seemed to have taken an instant dislike to Castiel. No doubt he relished the opportunity to have Castiel dismissed from the service.

But Winchester’s next words stunned him.

“Why are you troubling Mr. Milton?”

Dr. Angle giggled. “I am not troubling him.” He gazed intently at Castiel. “Am I, Castiel?”

“Quite the contrary,” Castiel answered.

“The proper term of address would be ‘Mr. Milton,’ Dr. Angle,” Winchester admonished. “Now leave us.”

“Mr. Milton, tell Mr. Winchester to stop bothering us.”

“I would prefer it if you left, Dr. Angle,” Castiel replied.

Dr. Angle shrugged and glared at Winchester. “Why must you always spoil my fun, Mr. Winchester?” Winchester returned his icy stare, and after a moment, Dr. Angle reeled down the passageway.

“I’m sorry he assaulted you like that,” Winchester said.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, “for extracting me from that situation.”

“You’re welcome.” Winchester examined him, and Castiel grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “You’re too pretty for your own good, I think.” Blushing, Castiel glowered at him. Winchester held up his hands. “I apologize. I meant no offense.” He paused then added, “I had—have—the same problem.” Castiel looked a question at him. “Dr. Angle did the same thing to me my first night on board.” He chewed his lip and mused, “I don’t know why it didn’t happen to Sammy.”

“Perhaps the explanation lies in Mr. Wesson’s size. Dr. Angle might have found him too intimidating to approach.”

Winchester chuckled. “That is a distinct possibility,” he acknowledged.

Castiel remembered Dr. Angle’s unfocused eyes. “Did Dr. Angle ingest some drug?”

“He gives Captain Fallon a daily dose of laudanum for aches and pains in his back and legs. He often indulges himself in the habit as well.”

“Oh.”

They stood there silently for a minute until Dean said, “His full name is Balthazar Angle. Is that the name of an angel, too? Like Castiel?”

That was an odd question; Castiel was astonished that Winchester would have an interest in such a matter. “No,” Castiel replied. He recited the knowledge he had learned from Father. “Some people believe one of the Three Wise Men was named Balthazar. In Babylon, the prophet Daniel was given the name Balthazar. One of the kings of Babylon was also named Balthazar.”

“Oh. That’s not the name of an angel, then.”

“Not according to tradition, no."

“Well, I suppose I learned something today,” Winchester gibed. He suddenly seemed self-conscious. “Um. I should replace Sammy on watch. I was due on deck ten minutes ago.”

“I am sorry. I did not mean to detain you.”

Winchester flashed a humorless smile. “It’s all right. I just hope that Captain Fallon doesn’t notice.” As Winchester’s figure receded, Castiel considered the frisson of fear he had heard in Winchester’s voice. A captain should enforce order, of course, but something about Winchester’s inflection struck him as out of the ordinary. _That is preposterous_ , he concluded. The incident with Dr. Angle had rendered him overly anxious, he told himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tender\--A small boat that ferries people and supplies between a ship and the shore.
> 
> Rating\--Generally, the higher the rating, the bigger the ship. A higher rating also meant a ship carried more guns. Ships could be classed anywhere from first-rate down to sixth-rate, with the first-rate ships being the highest (and thus the biggest ones with the most guns).
> 
> Ship of the Line\--If it was third-rate, this ship usually had about 74 guns located on two decks. 
> 
> Frigate\--This ship had at least 28 guns located on 1 deck. 
> 
> Note on Rankings\--On board a ship, the hierarchy ran as follows: the captain was in charge, the lieutenants were under him, and the midshipmen were beneath the lieutenants. On a ship, the first lieutenant had been ranked as lieutenant longest, the second lietuenant second longest, etc. An admiral was in charge of an entire fleet.
> 
> Bicorne\--A hat with two corners, one in front of and one behind the head. [ Here's ](http://www.angelfire.com/wizard/hornblower/HH1a.JPG) a picture of Horatio Hornblower wearing one.
> 
> Queue\--The fashion of the time (at least for sailors). The hair was braided and hung down a man's back. It looked kind of like a ponytail.
> 
> Stay tackles\--A tackle attached to the mainstay (a rope hanging from the mast) of the ship and used to hoist things.
> 
> Gunner\--The man in charge of the ship's guns.
> 
> Lay Aft\--Used to indicate direction. To "lay aft" means to stand closer to the back of the ship.
> 
> Wardroom/Mess\--The place where the lieutenants would eat and generally spend time if not in their rooms or on watch.
> 
> Hit the head\--Use the bathroom.
> 
> Bulkhead\--A wall inside a ship.


	2. Isolation

After his four hours of sleep, Castiel rushed up to the deck, ready to begin his watch. He found Captain Fallon and Mr. Winchester leaning against the side of the ship, Captain Fallon irate, face contorted into something ugly. When Castiel arrived, Fallon turned to him. “We have no need for you at the present moment, Mr. Milton,” he proclaimed. “Mr. Winchester’s inability to be punctual has earned him a double shift.”

“Sir?” Castiel responded, rubbing the sleep out of his bleary eyes. He had grown soft during his time ashore, he realized, and his lethargic brain had only halfway processed the captain’s words.

“You will take the next watch, Mr. Milton,” Captain Fallon explained. “I trust you will be punctual, just as you have been now.” He looked back at Winchester. “You would do well to follow Mr. Milton’s example, Mr. Winchester.”

Castiel’s mouth hung open. Should he say something? Winchester had been late because of him. But Winchester’s gaze held a warning, and Castiel came to his senses. It would never do to object to the captain’s wishes. The Royal Navy was notorious for its strict adherence to the prescribed code, and nothing whatsoever excused a violation. It made life at sea simple and orderly, which Castiel appreciated. It took the mystery out of life. Though discipline could be harsh, as it had been with Father, the rules were not arbitrary. One knew the precise nature of each offense as well as the punishment for it. Not like with Father, when it had been hard to predict what he would consider a sin; the most seemingly innocent actions could be grounds for punishment. Once, he had caught Rachel reading his notes for an upcoming sermon then beat her behind so she could not walk for the rest of the day, all because she had been “spying.” She had been doing no such thing, however, for she had not even attempted to hide the act from Father. Father’s punishments were often inconsistent as well. Once, he whipped Castiel for sleeping one minute past six a.m., the designated wake-up time, but on another date he’d done nothing when Anna had slept five minutes late.

“Aye aye, sir,” Castiel said. He noted Winchester’s resigned expression as he returned below deck. Since he was awake, Castiel decided he should procure some coffee from the mess. There, he discovered Wesson alone, reading a book while sipping from a mug. Castiel poured himself a cup and sat down next to Wesson.

Wesson glanced up from his volume. “Shouldn’t you be on watch?”

“Captain Fallon has assigned Mr. Winchester double watch,” Castiel answered, “because he was late for his shift.”

“It was only ten minutes!” Wesson exclaimed.

Wesson’s attitude struck Castiel as rather lax. “Every minute, nay every second, counts in our profession,” Castiel reproved him.

Wesson idly flipped through the pages of his book as he spoke. “What do you know of Captain Fallon, Mr. Milton?”

“I know his reputation,” Castiel replied, puzzled by the question.

Wesson seemed to consider something for a minute before he uttered his next words. “As a captain, or as a man?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at Wesson. His query was unscrupulous. Castiel might have expected the somewhat brash Winchester to say something like that, but not Wesson, who had impressed him as more prudent. “I do not think I much care for what you are implying,” Castiel enunciated carefully.

Wesson sighed. “Look. All I’m saying is that a good captain should understand the personalities of his officers, right? Dean never neglects his duties. If he was late, then I assume he had a damn good reason.” Wesson shook his head. “But he would not tell me what it was.” The knowledge that he was the cause of Winchester’s lateness weighed on Castiel, but it was not a matter that could be spoken of. “Should a captain not take into account what he knows of a man’s character?” Wesson continued.

“The rules must apply equally to everyone, Mr. Wesson,” Castiel countered.

“Perhaps. But the way Captain Fallon conducts affairs—”

“Mr. Wesson,” Castiel bit out. “You are dangerously close to talking treason. It is not our place to question the captain, but to obey, no matter what we think.”

Wesson studied Castiel for a minute then said, his voice low, “You really believe that, don’t you?” He gave Castiel a disdainful look and moved to the opposite side of the room.

What Castiel believed did not signify. He had merely articulated the guiding principle of the Royal Navy. The boundaries were clear, so clear that they could never blur, not without introducing a fissure into the institution. One must simply follow the rules or suffer the penalty for transgressing them.

Over the following days, Castiel spent most of his time alone. He used the opportunity to observe his surroundings. The other lieutenants shunned him except for perfunctory exchanges when duty required them. They talked amongst themselves, and with Mr. Milligan, and sometimes eyed Castiel with distrust. As longtime members of the ship’s crew, the four appeared to have formed a clique, and they must have decided it held no place for him.

Castiel did not mind. He was used to being treated as an outsider, but it did make him feel rather lonely.

Once, Captain Fallon pulled him aside and muttered that the other three lieutenants were concocting conspiracies against him. The idea had not seemed far-fetched, especially considering Wesson’s words to him about the captain. But dissatisfaction was one thing and mutiny another. No matter what Wesson thought of the captain, he was certainly too pragmatic to participate in such an undertaking, and Godwin seemed too cautious to even consider the notion.

However, Castiel slowly came to realize that, war hero or not, something about Captain Fallon was not quite right. The thought first occurred to him when he overheard Captain Fallon chatting with Mr. Crowley. The gunner seemed an odd choice for a captain’s confidant, but Castiel paid no heed to it. As he passed by them, though, he overheard snippets of a startling conversation. Captain Fallon was pointing at a spot where Winchester, Wesson, and Milligan stood together and complaining about a plot those three were formulating.

Having just walked by the trio, Castiel knew they were discussing the merchant business owned by Milligan’s father.

The next moment of unease occurred when Captain Fallon invited Castiel to have a drink with himself and Dr. Angle in his cabin. After Castiel had settled into his seat, he sipped his wine, studied the two men opposite him, and realized that they were quite drunk. Dr. Angle had a strange look in his eye, the same one Castiel had noticed during their first encounter, and so did Captain Fallon. A syringe and small bottle lay on the table. Dr. Angle gestured toward it. “Would you care for a dose of laudanum, Mr. Milton?”

“No, thank you,” Castiel replied, astounded by the offer. Laudanum was a potent drug, as he understood it, and should not be distributed so casually.

“Its effects are quite agreeable,” Dr. Angle argued.

“No, thank you, Dr. Angle,” Castiel repeated.

“Why?” Captain Fallon asked sharply. Castiel flinched, not having expected the captain to speak so loudly. “You think you’re too good for this stuff? That you’re better than us?”

“No, sir,” Castiel replied. Hoping to diffuse a potential confrontation, he added, “I merely do not want to steal your medicine. We would not wish to run out of the substance before we are able to resupply, would we?”

Fallon shook his head and smiled. “That is very considerate of you, Mr. Milton.” He turned to Dr. Angle. “We should be grateful for Mr. Milton, should we not?”

“Yes, sir,” Dr. Angle said through a hiccup.

Light blue eyes pierced Castiel’s, and Castiel fought to maintain his composure. Though the captain’s orbs were unsteady, there was something else within them, a hint of pure malice, that frightened Castiel. “You are a gem, Mr. Milton. Not a lying, scheming villain like those other lieutenants.”

“Thank you, sir,” Castiel replied quietly.

Fallon tore his eyes away, and Castiel breathed an inward sigh of relief. “Especially that Winchester,” Fallon continued. “What do you make of him, Mr. Milton?”

Castiel proceeded tentatively, not wanting to be dishonest yet afraid of how the captain might react. “I do not know, sir. He seems competent to me.”

Fallon laughed darkly and gulped down his wine. Dr. Angle poured him another glass. “He must have you fooled then, Mr. Milton. Mr. Winchester is skillful at concealing his true nature.”

“And what might that be?” Castiel inquired, regretting the question as soon as it flew out of his mouth.

“Insubordinate. Obstinate. Stubborn.” Fallon took a swig from his glass. “But Mr. Milligan is much worse. A disrespectful, lazy imbecile,” Fallon muttered.

Castiel frowned. That had not been his impression of Mr. Milligan. He seemed the most industrious of all the _Renown_ ’s midshipmen, and certainly not an imbecile.

“You disagree with me, Mr. Milton,” Fallon observed.

“I—”

Fallon held up a hand. “Shh. It’s all right. I understand that you have been duped. You will soon see Mr. Milligan and Mr. Winchester for what they are.”

When the ship’s assignment finally arrived, the captain met with his lieutenants in his cabin, where Dr. Angle, sober for once, lingered in the background.

“We are sailing for the West Indies. Santo Domingo,” Captain Fallon announced.

“The slaves are rebelling there,” Winchester pointed out.

“Very good, Mr. Winchester,” Fallon replied derisively. “Gentlemen, we can certainly rely on Mr. Winchester to keep us abreast of current events.” Fury overtook his features, and he stared off into the distance. “Yes, a slave rebellion. They are rising up against their Spanish masters, started by that damned French revolutionary nonsense. Liberty, fraternity, stupidity. Ha!”

“Damn filthy savages,” Godwin hissed.

“Quite right,” Fallon agreed. He turned his gaze to Winchester. “You’re not a revolutionary, are you, Mr. Winchester?”

“No, sir,” Winchester said, but Castiel detected a momentary flash in his eye that belied his answer. It appeared that Winchester did support the slave revolts, which was highly unusual. Castiel himself sympathized with them, having heard stories of their masters’ cruelty. Besides, one man should never own another. But no one back home agreed with him other than Anna and Rachel. Since his opinion would be considered radical to most people, he had never shared it outside of the family.

Castiel returned from his reverie to hear the captain say, “Santo Domingo, gentlemen. There is a nest of Spanish privateers in Samana Bay menacing our trade through the Mona Strait. It’s our task to clear the vermin out.”

Castiel noted, “It’s a far cry from Napoleon, sir, but we have ten times more chance of seeing action there than with the Channel Fleet.”

“That so, Mr. Milton?” Fallon said.

“Yes, sir.”

Fallon beamed. “Now there’s a man after my own heart.” Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel noticed Winchester suppressing an annoyed expression. “And plenty of action you shall have, Mr. Milton, along with an abundance of yellow fever and ague, eh, Dr. Angle?”

Dr. Angle stepped forward. “Yes, sir. In addition to putrid fever and poisonous serpents.”

“Hurricanes and shipworm,” Godwin added.

“When were you last in the West Indies, Mr. Godwin?” Fallon snapped.

“Sir?”

“Answer the question, Mr. Godwin!"

Godwin licked his lips nervously then began, “I regret to say—”

“You were never in the West Indies, Mr. Godwin. Never. You are already out of your depth.” He looked to Castiel. “Am I not right, Mr. Milton?” Castiel tried to formulate a response that would not upset the captain without implying agreement with him. It was difficult to think with his chest constricting so tightly. “I said, am I not right?” Fallon shouted.

“We all have much to learn from your example, sir,” Dr. Angle soothed.

Fallon grinned at him. “Quite right, Dr. Angle.”

The lieutenants were dismissed, and Godwin headed toward his cabin. Winchester and Wesson whispered to each other as they trudged away.

Castiel was grateful for Dr. Angle’s interference. He could only imagine how much more enraged Fallon might have grown otherwise. The captain troubled him, and Castiel did not know what to do with that feeling.

Castiel basked in the sun as he paced the deck. He loved its warmth and its light, the inherent beneficent nature of it. Tomorrow might be as cloudy as yesterday, so he should enjoy the sun while he could.

“Mr. Milton,” Captain Fallon growled.

Castiel’s smile melted from his lips as he spun around to face the captain. “Sir?”

Captain Fallon gazed back at him with displeasure and held up a book. “Do you know whose this is?”

Castiel squinted to make out the title, _The Monk_ by Matthew Lewis. “I believe that is Mr. Milligan’s, sir.” Though Mr. Wesson did read quite a bit, he did not read novels, and Castiel had seen Mr. Milligan with the book besides.

“Mr. Milligan!” Captain Fallon yelled.

Mr. Milligan strode toward them from the far side, closely followed by Mr. Winchester. “Sir?” Milligan said.

Fallon waved the book in Milligan’s face. “Mr. Milton tells me this belongs to you.”

“Y . . . yes, sir,” Milligan stammered.

Fallon slammed the book against his other palm. “Do you think this is appropriate reading material? I will not tolerate such immoral rubbish on my ship.” He tossed the book overboard, and Castiel stared as the novel flew in an arc and landed in the water. Fallon tapped his chin. “Let me think. What would be a suitable punishment?”

Winchester cut in, “Sir, I do not see how a man’s reading preferences—”

“Quiet, Mr. Winchester!” Fallon screeched. “Do not presume to instruct your captain.” He paused. “Mr. Milligan, fetch Dr. Angle, Mr. Rhodes, and Mr. Fitzgerald; then meet me down below.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Milligan squeaked before shuffling away.

“And you two, Mr. Milton and Mr. Winchester. Follow me.”

With a growing sense of trepidation, Castiel accompanied the others below deck. Winchester spared a glance of contempt for Castiel as they proceeded. They stopped next to one of the cannons, and Castiel knew what this meant. A wave of nausea passed through him.

Presently, Milligan appeared with the requested men. Ash Rhodes, the boatswain, carried a cat o’nine tails, and Garth Fitzgerald, his mate, bore himself with an air of melancholy.

“Drop your britches and bend over, boy,” Fallon commanded. Milligan did as he was told.

“With all due respect, sir. Reading is not a punishable offense,” Winchester protested. “Besides, there are procedures—”

“Hush, Winchester!” Fallon hollered. “The boy has been derelict in his duty, reading when he should be working. And as for you. You deserve the lash for your insubordination, but your rank precludes the sentence. All too regrettable, if you ask me. So you shall have continuous thirty-six hour watch.” He turned to Rhodes and ordered, “The full dozen!” Castiel could not prevent a gasp. Twelve lashes was the maximum penalty. Luckily, Fallon seemed not to have noticed his reaction.

“Sir?” Rhodes murmured.

“You heard me, Mr. Rhodes!”

Milligan closed his eyes, body bowed over the cannon. Tears escaped from underneath his eyelashes. Rhodes raised the whip and began to count. “One. Two. Three.” Vicious red welts formed on Milligan’s buttocks and thighs, and after the sixth lash, blood trickled down. Castiel closed his eyes to still his own tears. He felt every strike, just as if Father were the one whipping him.

Rhodes paused after number nine. “Doctor?” he ventured. Castiel opened his eyes to see the bleeding mess that was Milligan. He seemed barely fit to stand.

“You may continue, Mr. Rhodes,” Fallon interjected. “Isn’t that right, Dr. Angle?”

“Quite right, sir,” Angle agreed.

After the twelfth strike, Rhodes had to pry Milligan up and, along with Fitzgerald, help him to his berth. “That’ll teach him,” Fallon gloated. “Mr. Milton, Mr. Winchester, you are dismissed.”

Castiel stumbled after Winchester, his legs unsteady. When they were out of Fallon’s earshot, Winchester stopped to study him, surely noticing how shaky Castiel’s limbs were. “If you cannot tolerate the results, Mr. Milton, perhaps you should not go blabbing to the captain,” he hissed before stalking away. Castiel uncurled fists he hadn’t even realized his hands had formed and discovered indentations from his fingernails digging into his palms

He wished he could have defended himself to Winchester, but Winchester probably would not have believed him anyway. He had had no inkling of how Fallon would respond, and the captain’s question had seemed innocuous.

Castiel knew very well that punishment in the Royal Navy could be severe, but discipline was guided by rules. Fallon’s treatment of Milligan didn’t accord with any of those rules. Aboard the other two ships he had served on, Castiel had never seen a man beaten so severely as Milligan. Whatever Fallon’s code, it was as capricious as Reverend Milton’s had been. Castiel had joined the navy to gain a sense of order and escape unpredictability. Here on the _Renown_ , however, unpredictability had found him once again.

He did not like the state of affairs on this ship. But it was not his place to question the captain, he reminded himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shipworm\--A worm that would burrow into the wood of ships.
> 
> Boatswain\--The highest rank among the common sailors. The boatswain was in charge of administering corporal punishment.


	3. Outsider

Castiel lay in his cot for a while, but he could not sleep. It was stuffy in his cabin. He craved fresh air, so he hopped out of bed, dressed, and grabbed his journal, quill, and inkwell.

At this hour, few people were on deck. He spotted Winchester, who was in the midst of his thirty-six hour watch. Surely he must be exhausted by now. Castiel approached him and noticed his eyes were drooping. “Would you like me to help you keep watch, Mr. Winchester?” he offered.

Winchester growled, “I don’t need your damn assistance, Mr. Milton.” He stalked to the other side of the ship, and Castiel watched the figure recede, baffled. Castiel’s suggestion had been practical, after all; if Winchester should nod off, then he might miss something vital during his watch.

Castiel found a place to sit and propped up his journal on his knees. For a few minutes, he gazed up at the sky, marveling at the stars, visible due to the clear night. He wished he could float up into them and get lost; then life would be much simpler. He would have nothing to worry about, nothing to fear.

Memories of Zachariah Milton had kept him awake, and by writing in his journal, Castiel could banish them to the page. He dipped his quill in the inkwell and began:

_My peace is disturbed tonight. So many glimpses of Father flash before me, and sometimes I feel almost as if I am a child again, receiving his discipline. But I remind myself that I am no longer with him, that I am in the middle of the sea, and that he passed away from this earth years ago. He can no longer chastise me._

_But sometimes I still feel it, phantom echoes of his punishment. He commands me to present my palms, and he strikes them with a switch until they bleed. If I cry, he strikes more, until I stop. Godly men do not cry, he says. Godly men are strong, and they endure their punishments with wise stoicism. They know the true value of penance, and I should know it doubly so since I shall one day be a clergyman like him. God is separating the chaff from the wheat, he tells me, and I must not fall into the wrong pile._

_I think I was six when he first told me that. I don’t know. Everything bleeds together sometimes._

_I was never godly enough for him. Sometimes I did not understand why he was flogging me. I did not comprehend what my transgression had been, and that must mean I was wicked, he would tell me with each strike. Afterward, he would ask if I had finally understood, but I never did. One time I pretended to, but when he asked me what the lesson was, I did not give him the answer he desired, so he punished me for lying. He drew a rope around my neck and pulled on it, and I wept, and he pulled harder, and I tried to beg him to stop because I couldn’t breathe, only I could not make a sound. When he finally let go, he said he had been demonstrating the weight of sin, how it chokes the sinner until he is crushed under the burden. That was hell, he said: eternal flames representing people’s sins, those flames repeatedly suffocating them. I remember how intense his eyes got when he asked if I wanted to experience that again. I answered no, and he said I must try better to be good or I would experience that for eternity, only then the pain would be much worse._

_Sometimes, as I do now, I still feel as if the rope burns around my neck._

_I am sorry that Anna and Rachel felt his wrath, too, but I am also grateful that they did not witness most of what he did to me—or have the worst things done to them._

_I don’t know. Perhaps I did deserve it. Father was a man of the Lord. What if turning away from his beliefs was the wrong thing to do? Sometimes I fear that I really am wicked._

_Maybe that is why I have always been an outsider, no matter where I go. It is an indication that something is wrong with me._

Boots entered Castiel’s purview, and he glanced up to see Winchester gazing down at him. Winchester crouched beside Castiel, his lips forming a sneer. “What does the inimitable Mr. Milton write so much about?”

Castiel dropped his quill and clutched the journal to his chest. “It is a private matter.”

Winchester tried to snatch the journal from Castiel’s grasp, but Castiel only held to it more tightly. Soon, Winchester was practically clawing at Castiel’s hands, and Castiel fell onto his back as he tried to scoot away. One of his hands slipped, and Winchester grabbed the journal.

Winchester stood up. Horrified, Castiel staggered to his feet as well. Nothing in Winchester’s expression changed as his eyes skimmed over what Castiel had just written. When he was finished, he tossed the journal back to Castiel and declared, “You’re right. That’s private.” His eyes met Castiel’s, and Castiel could read the sincerity in them. “I’m sorry.” He averted his gaze. “I will not bother you again.”

For a minute, Castiel wasn’t certain what Winchester was apologizing for: reading Castiel’s journal, or the contents of the journal themselves.

Winchester’s thirty-six hour watch was almost over, and the man must be glad. At several points, Castiel had witnessed him slumping against the side of the ship. During those moments, Castiel had feared Captain Fallon would arrive on deck and find some reason to further punish Winchester.

While Castiel was supervising the sailors adjusting the sails at the masthead, Milligan and Wesson stepped on deck. Castiel chanced a glance at the midshipman and flinched at his pallor. Clearly, the boy was still in pain. Wesson led Milligan to the stand containing two hourglasses and commanded, “Test these against each other.” He whispered something in Milligan’s ear before walking away. They must have been words of comfort, for Milligan smiled at Wesson’s back.

Everything proceeded tranquilly enough until heavy footfalls hit the deck. When Castiel turned around, he found that his guess had been correct—Fallon had come topside.

“Mr. Milligan!” Fallon shouted as he strode toward the youth. “Why do you idle?”

Wesson approached Fallon and, eyes downcast, mentioned, “Sir, I asked Mr. Milligan to test the sandglasses against each other.”

“You, too, Mr. Wesson?” Fallon marveled. “You are conspiring with this lad and Winchester? I had my suspicions, but I had hoped I was wrong.” Fallon sighed with disappointment.

“Sir,” Winchester chimed in as he joined the other three, his eyes fully alert now, “there is no conspiracy. I am sorry if we have done something to mislead you, but we are loyal, truly.” He patted the side of the ship. “Our allegiance is to our country and to the _Renown_.”

“Your allegiance should be to me, dammit! _I_ am your captain!”

“Yes, sir,” Winchester replied. “I apologize. I did not mean to omit you.”

“Ah, but you did. And you would lie so boldly to my face. Your craftiness does not fool me, Mr. Winchester.” Fallon inched forward until his nose almost touched Winchester’s. “I am assigning you another thirty-six hour watch, beginning as soon as your first one ends. If I catch you drifting off, there will be hell to pay.”

“Sir,” Wesson cut in, “with all due respect, I fear for the safety of the ship if Mr. Winchester sustains another thirty-six hour watch.”

Fallon slapped Wesson, leaving a red stain on his cheek. Castiel was stunned that a captain would treat his lieutenant in such a way with common sailors in the vicinity, even if Wesson had questioned the captain. It undermined the authority of every lieutenant. “Do not _dare_ tell me what is best for this ship!” Fallon warned. “ _I_ am the captain, and as such, _I_ know what is best for her.” His gaze moved to Castiel, who swallowed, fearing what the captain might say to him. “Mr. Milton is well-aware of that fact. Are you not, Mr. Milton?”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel answered, feeling as if the words had been squeezed out of him.

Fallon turned back to the other three, triumphant. “Mr. Milton is a proper lieutenant, gentlemen. He understands that a conspiracy against me is a conspiracy against the nation.”

Fallon returned below deck, and the other three looked at Castiel. Wesson sprinted toward him, grabbed his lapels, and shoved him against the side of the ship. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he yelled. “How could you just stand there?” He banged the bottom of Castiel’s head against the ship. When Castiel reached up to rub the spot, Wesson caught his wrist and arrested the motion.

Winchester appeared beside them. “Leave him alone, Sammy,” Winchester said, voice stripped of inflection. “If Mr. Milton had acted differently, it wouldn’t have done any good.”

“I still don’t understand him,” Wesson grumbled.

Winchester threw an arm around Wesson’s shoulders and led him away. “I know. I don’t, either, but we should not allow that to cloud our judgment.”

It was strange, Castiel reflected, that Winchester should be more level-headed than Wesson in this situation.

When Winchester and Wesson were on the far side of the deck, Winchester glanced back at Castiel. For a second, Castiel thought his expression seemed sympathetic, but that was probably his imagination. He blinked, and Winchester’s face wore the disdain he usually accorded Castiel. Winchester muttered something to Wesson about “a coward,” which Castiel took as a reference to himself. He knew he was no coward, but the remark still stung.

In the wardroom, Castiel poured himself a cup of coffee. He was alone tonight, and he took the time to reflect on his family and why he had joined the Royal Navy.

It had been about more than escaping Father, though that had been an added benefit. Early in his life, he had concluded that he wanted to be nothing like Father. If God was the hard, cold entity Father had portrayed him as, then Castiel wanted nothing to do with Him. He remembered reading somewhere that God was love, and he liked to believe that was true. To Father, however, God was hate and wrath and righteous indignation, and all people were sinners who should perpetually be aware of how wretched they were and thankful the Lord had given everyone the opportunity for mercy.

Anna had been the first to turn away from Father’s beliefs. Fierce Anna, who was all love and support while Father was hate and rejection. When Father had hurt him, whether verbally or physically, Anna had always been there to comfort him. She made sure they hid from Father so Castiel wouldn’t be punished for his tears and Anna wouldn’t be punished for being too soft.

Castiel loved Rachel equally as much. As the middle child, she was two years older than Castiel and three years younger than Anna. She had always been shy and sensitive, and it had hurt his heart to see her grieve when Father had whipped him. It had hurt even more when she was the target of Father’s rage.

Anna’s whispers in the dark had converted him to her point of view. It had not taken much to convince him. Rachel had struggled more with her decision, for she did revere Father even if all he did was wound. She had gone through the motions of his religion, declaring that it felt sinful to turn away.

But then Father had castigated Castiel for his decision to join the navy, meted out his most vicious punishment yet and made his sisters watch. Rachel had sobbed hysterically, and afterward she had cut Father out of her heart, severing the connection even more thoroughly than Castiel and Anna had. After that, she had spoken to Father only when she had to. Father had punished her for her insolence, but she had remained impassive throughout. So Father had dubbed her a devilish child and ordered her to move out.

In order to respectably leave Father’s house, around that time Anna became engaged to a Mr. Michael Grey. After they married, Rachel lived with them. But his sisters discovered Mr. Grey was just as bad as Father. He had no scruples about leaving bruises on Anna’s body, or Rachel’s. One day, Anna and Rachel fled, setting up their own place together. Mr. Grey was a respectable man, a lawyer, and Anna and Rachel received a scandalous reputation for their actions. Castiel had suggested Anna tell their story, but she argued that no one would believe two women over Mr. Grey. She was right, of course, but Castiel hated that everyone’s ideas about Anna and Rachel were distorted. He sent them money to help maintain their livelihood, and he stayed with them when he was on leave. They also possessed a small sum obtained from selling Father’s house after his death.

Castiel rubbed his chest idly, reminding himself that Father’s brand lay underneath his clothing. It would always be there; he could never escape the man, not really.

The Royal Navy had promised adventure, a chance to see the world. But more than that, it had promised order, rules he could comprehend. A clear set of guidelines with no question of ambiguity. And the structure of the navy made sense. It was organized with a rigid hierarchy that functioned well. It had a solid purpose, a purpose Castiel believed in. To serve the country. Yes, there was punishment, as there had been with Father, but the reasons for punishment were always clear. It was for the betterment of the individuals, the navy, and the nation. It ensured that rules were followed, rules necessary for the institution to operate successfully.

Even in the navy, however, Castiel was an outsider, just as he had been as a child. Father had not allowed him any friends, so his whole world had been Father, Anna, and Rachel. Perhaps that explained why his mannerisms often struck people as strange. Still, the navy didn’t care if Castiel was strange as long as he performed his tasks proficiently, which he did. So he belonged, and if he had never befriended anyone, at least his past colleagues had always treated him kindly.

The roaring of men’s voices ripped Castiel from his reverie. As he listened, the noise grew louder. Castiel dashed toward the source of the racket, an area crowded with sailors cheering on two men engaged in fisticuffs. Mr. Rhodes was yelling, asking the men to stop fighting, but no one seemed to hear him. Castiel whistled loudly, and that garnered everyone’s attention.

“Silence!” Castiel commanded. “What is all this nonsense about?”

A black-haired man with a bleeding nose answered, gesturing at a blonde man with a busted lip, “’E insulted me, sir.”

“How did he insult you?”

“Leave them to it,” Mr. Crowley advised as he stepped forward.

Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. How dare the gunner try to instruct a superior officer in his job. “Let us preserve our energy for the upcoming battle.” They would be arriving in Santo Domingo soon, and a split crew would not be conducive to engaging the enemy.

“Captain Fallon likes a little fighting spirit between the men. Says it prepares them for the real thing, gets them in the right frame of mind, if you will.”

“Quite right, Mr. Crowley,” Fallon concurred as he entered the area from the opposite side. He looked to the men who had been pummeling each other. “Continue. Please.”

The other men started cheering again, and Castiel stared at Fallon for a moment, wide-eyed. He could not believe such an attitude in a captain, especially one of Fallon’s caliber. Fallon flashed him an eerie grin before turning to watch the fight, hollering enthusiasm with the other sailors. Castiel backed away and leaned against the bulkhead, feeling a little queasy. He watched, transfixed as the men’s skin blossomed into hues of black and purple and blue. More blood flowed until the blonde-haired man fell to the ground, and the audience shouted its approval as the black-haired man kicked his face into a bloody pulp.

Castiel had no doubt that the fallen sailor was dead.

He bolted back to the wardroom and attempted to steady his frantic breathing. Once he regained control, he thought about what he had just witnessed.

Captain Fallon had just _encouraged_ one of the sailors to beat another. He’d looked on approvingly while one had killed the other.

That was not Castiel’s definition of a true captain. Fallon did not enforce discipline with the common sailors. He claimed infractions had occurred when they never had and used them as an excuse to punish people he disliked. He claimed those people conspired against him, but the belief seemed to have no basis in reality. But even if there was a conspiracy, it would exist because of Fallon’s irrational behavior, would it not?

Castiel had not joined the navy to serve under a man just like his father.

But he wasn’t supposed to question the captain. The captain knew best, and Fallon was one of the most celebrated captains of all.

But what if the captain _didn’t_ know best? What should be done in such a situation?

Castiel argued with himself back and forth, his burgeoning doubts gaining ascendancy. He didn’t know what to do or what to think. He needed to discuss the matter with someone, but who could he trust?

 _Winchester_ , he thought.

No. Winchester despised him.

But his instincts gravitated toward Winchester. The incident with Dr. Angle had shown he could be discreet.

Yes, he would seek Winchester out. If that damned him, well, then he was damned.


	4. Inside the Circle

Castiel grabbed his lantern and headed upstairs to the deck, where Winchester should still be on watch. A dense fog surrounded the ship, and the ocean was barely visible underneath it. Castiel strode the length of the deck but could find Winchester nowhere. The only person on deck was Mr. Milligan. Castiel suspected Milligan would know Winchester’s whereabouts. He approached the midshipman and said, “Good evening, Mr. Milligan.”

“Good evening, Mr. Milton,” Milligan replied.

Castiel glanced around as if searching the deck then looked back at Milligan. “Do you know where I can find Mr. Winchester?”

Milligan shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. Maybe he’s taking a piss.”

Castiel held his lantern aloft and noted Milligan’s sallow complexion. He felt sorry for the lad, who was clearly still in pain, but he also believed Milligan was lying. He was too jumpy not to be.

“Tell me where Mr. Winchester is, Mr. Milligan,” Castiel demanded.

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“Do you know when he will be back?”

“No, sir.”

Castiel leaned against the side of the ship beside Milligan. “Well. Then I shall wait here for him.” Mr. Milligan’s gulp gave him away. It seemed Winchester would be gone for an extended period of time, and Mr. Milligan knew exactly where he was. Castiel encroached farther into Milligan’s personal space and repeated, “Tell me where Mr. Winchester is.”

“I told you, I don’t know!” Milligan exclaimed, voice climbing up an octave.

“But you do. Tell me where he is. That is an order, Mr. Milligan.” Castiel disliked using his authority to intimidate Milligan, but he would do whatever it took to find Winchester.

“I don’t know!”

This was taking entirely too long. He gripped Milligan’s shoulders and shoved him against the side of the ship. “You will answer me!” he spat. “Or—” Or what? “—or I shall inform Captain Fallon that Mr. Winchester has abandoned his post.” He regretted the panic that overcame Milligan’s face, especially since he had no intention of following through on the threat no matter how Milligan responded.

“He’s in the cargo hold!” Milligan gasped.

Castiel released Milligan, who collapsed against the side of the ship. “Thank you,” Castiel murmured. He stalked away from Milligan and down into the ship, intent on finding Winchester. He didn’t spare a thought for why Winchester would be in the cargo hold, his mind too distracted by the fight he’d witnessed amidships.

He banged his way into the cargo hold, wielding the lantern in front of him. When he entered, the three individuals on the other side of the room stood stock still. For a moment, it was so quiet that all Castiel could hear was the rocking of the ship.

As Castiel examined the three lieutenants before him, Godwin and Wesson retreated behind Winchester, one on either side of him. They both looked to Winchester as if for guidance. The glow from Winchester’s lantern illuminated the lieutenants’ anxious features.

Winchester stepped forward. “Good evening, Mr. Milton.”

“Good evening, Mr. Winchester.”

“What are you doing down here?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

He and Winchester circled around each other, Godwin and Wesson staying back. Castiel put the pieces together.

This was a conspiracy. A plot.

Castiel did not like to think of the word. The consequences for insurrection were dire.

But he could not deny that Fallon’s captaincy was not in the _Renown_ ’s best interests. Perhaps he had been a brilliant captain once, but now his behavior was unbalanced.

The images played through Castiel’s mind again and again. So vivid. Fallon ordering Rhodes to punish Milligan. Fallon slapping Wesson. Fallon ordering Winchester to serve two consecutive thirty-six-hour watches.

Fallon cheering on the fight.

Fallon glorying in the sailor’s death.

But another image popped up as well, one of Castiel and the other three lieutenants hanging from a noose.

His hands began trembling, and the lantern wavered. His breathing sped up once again.

Winchester stopped his pacing, and Castiel echoed the action. He studied Castiel and frowned. “You’re shaking. What’s the matter?”

“I—” Castiel began, but his labored breathing only escalated, and he couldn’t make another sound.

Winchester tugged Castiel by his fingers toward a crate. “Here. Sit down.” Castiel obeyed then chanced a glimpse at Godwin and Wesson. Wesson gave Winchester a perturbed look, but Winchester glared at him, and the look disappeared.

Castiel placed the lantern down beside himself and gazed up at the man looming above him. “What happened?” Winchester asked.

“I—” Castiel attempted again. He’d thought he had calmed down enough to speak, but suddenly he found it difficult to breathe all over again.

“Take your time,” Winchester urged.

After a few minutes, Castiel explained, “There was a fight between two of the sailors. I tried to break it up, but Captain Fallon countermanded my order, and . . . ”

“And what?”

“And they fought to the death.” Castiel exhaled slowly, relieved to finally have the words out of his mouth. He cast his eyes downward and twined his fingers together, fidgeting.

“Again?” Winchester moaned.

Castiel glanced up sharply. “This has occurred before?”

“Yes.”

“Dammit,” Castiel whispered. More loudly, he mentioned, “That is not appropriate. For the captain to encourage his men to antagonize each other.”

“No.”

“He has done many inappropriate things.”

“Yes.”

“Please do not think I have been indifferent to it.”

“No.”

“I—I didn’t know what to do.”

“I understand.”

Castiel surveyed the area around him, his gaze taking in all three lieutenants. “I think I comprehend what you are doing here. I want to help.”

Winchester gaped at him. “You do?”

Castiel smiled grimly. “Yes. We cannot allow things to continue as they are.”

Wesson came forward, face furious. “How do we know we can trust you?” he hurled.

“Sammy—“

Wesson held up a hand. “No, Dean.” He scowled at Castiel. “Whatever happened to not questioning the captain? Didn’t you say we should obey the captain no matter what?”

“I was mistaken,” Castiel conceded. “I have discovered there are certain—exceptions.”

Wesson turned to Winchester. “What if he’s a spy sent by the captain?”

Winchester’s eyes flitted to Castiel then back to Wesson. “I don’t think he is.”

“Well. I do.”

“What do you think, Mr. Godwin?” Winchester shouted.

“What?” Godwin replied as he joined them.

Winchester stared at Castiel as he spoke. “Do you think Mr. Milton can be trusted?”

“I don’t know.”

“I have already criticized the captain,” Castiel pointed out. “You have all witnessed it. I could be court-martialed for it, and you could testify against me if you wished. Is that not enough?” Three pairs of considering eyes gazed back at him. “I have put myself at your mercy.”

“See?” Winchester muttered.

“All right,” Wesson mumbled. “But I hope we will not regret letting you in, Mr. Milton.”

“You won’t,” Castiel vowed.

“Mr. Godwin?” Winchester prompted.

“Yes. Let us include Mr. Milton in the discussion.”

Winchester sat on another crate beside Castiel, and across from them, the other two lieutenants remained standing. Winchester had Castiel on one side of himself and his lantern on the other. “Where were we?” he muttered.

“We had all just agreed that having Captain Fallon in charge of the ship is dangerous,” Wesson supplied. He turned to Castiel and raised his eyebrows as if in a challenge.

“Yes. I concur,” Castiel said.

“We are unanimous, then. The next logical step would be to discuss our options for removing Fallon from the captaincy.”

“Mutiny, Sammy,” Winchester inserted, and the other three lieutenants flinched. “Don’t let’s mince words.”

“It doesn’t have to be something that drastic.”

Winchester crossed his arms over his chest. “Removing a captain is the very definition of mutiny.”

“But—”

“We could have Dr. Angle declare him unfit for command,” Godwin put in.

Winchester shook his head. “Dr. Angle would never do that. Besides, Sammy tried that before.”

“Yes,” Wesson said. “I voiced my concerns regarding the captain’s behavior, and he told me I was exaggerating. Was pretty adamant about it, too.”

“If we are going to do this,” Castiel mused. He was surprised he had accepted the idea of mutiny so quickly, but he could see no other path before them now. This was what they had committed themselves to, and it felt like destiny. “If we do this, then we must find a way to justify ourselves to the Admiralty. No doubt we will be court-martialed, and if we cannot account for ourselves to the court’s satisfaction, then we will certainly be jailed.” _Or hanged_ , he didn’t add, but he didn’t need to. When the others stiffened, he knew they were thinking the same thing.

“We’ll just tell them everything Captain Fallon did,” Winchester said.

Wesson pursed his lips in thought. “But will it be good enough for them? Our description might sound petty.”

“How so?”

“Let me see. First, he punishes a midshipman; then he punishes a lieutenant who had the audacity to contradict him. He allows fights on board every once in a while. It will not seem out of the ordinary.”

“But it is.”

“We know that since we have spent extensive time on board, but the Admiralty will see things differently.”

“But fights to the death, Sammy?”

“Who are they going to believe, us or him?”

“There’s four of us and only one of him. Majority rules.”

“No,” Castiel chimed in. “They will take his word over ours. His reputation all but assures that. The Admiralty will view us as traitors.”

“Quite right,” Wesson said. “And Captain Fallon is clever. He will be able to hide his true nature, and the Admiralty will be inclined to believe him. They will think we are lying.”

“Even if they did believe us,” Castiel thought aloud, “they might side with him anyway. For political reasons. They would not wish to disgrace a war hero. To preserve his good name, they may make us into sacrificial lambs.”

“Then he would still be a captain, free to carry on as he has been,” Winchester said.

“Yes.”

“And we will hang,” Godwin said. A chill entered the room. “Then we shouldn’t do this.”

“But the climate aboard this ship is unhealthy,” Wesson said. “What happens if we do nothing? It will only get worse, just as it has so far.”

“But we can endure it.”

“Can we?”

“Sure we can,” Winchester said. “But what about Mr. Milligan? Fallon has shown no qualms about beating the kid. I wouldn’t be surprised if his punishments eventually killed the boy. And what about the fights between sailors? When one of them dies?”

“Then they should not be fighting in the first place,” Godwin argued. “Fallon doesn’t force them to fight each other; he just doesn’t stop them.”

“But as a captain, it is his duty to stop them.”

“Allowing open hostility between the sailors creates disunity,” Castiel added. “If the crew is rife with ill feeling, then how can we expect them to cooperate during a battle?”

“Fallon will rally them,” Godwin answered. “As he must have done before. How else has he been winning battles?”

“Has Captain Fallon always been like this, though? I have trouble believing that.”

“I don’t think he has,” Winchester said. “I have met former lieutenants of his who had nothing but praise for him.”

“Then he is degenerating,” Castiel reasoned.

“If Dr. Angle does not certify the captain as unfit for duty, then the Admiralty will view any action against him as unconscionable,” Godwin argued. “I think we should do nothing for now and keep monitoring the situation.”

No one said a word as the other three lieutenants contemplated Godwin’s proposal. Finally, Wesson said, “I agree with Mr. Godwin.”

“To hell with that!” Winchester exclaimed.

“The risk is too great, Dean.”

“Come on, Sammy! You don’t really think everything will be all right if we allow things to continue as they are?”

“I don’t know. But I think we should not be too hasty.” He paused. “As matters stand, we are two against one.” He turned to Castiel. “What do you say, Mr. Milton?”

Winchester sighed with exasperation, obviously believing Castiel’s answer to be a foregone conclusion. Perhaps it would have been so an hour ago, but now Castiel was unsure. Until Godwin’s dissension, he had supposed the mutiny to be a certainty, and he had gradually grown more committed to the idea. Something about Fallon discomfited him, and he feared for the ship with Fallon in charge. Defeat in the upcoming excursion in Samana seemed like a distinct possibility.

Fallon was too unpredictable. He didn’t follow the naval code. While a captain should generally not be questioned, a captain should be working for the best interests of those under him. In turn, he would be working for the best interests of the nation. In order for a ship to function properly, its parts needed to fit together seamlessly; only then could battles be won. A good captain understood this balance and strove to maintain it, at least in Castiel’s experience.

Fallon may have been a good captain once, but much as it pained Castiel to criticize a superior officer, he felt that was no longer true.

“I side with Mr. Winchester,” Castiel decided. Godwin and Wesson gawked at him, and Winchester barked out a disbelieving laugh.

“Two against two, Sammy,” Winchester said. “Now come back to the side of the sane, hmm?”

“Why, Mr. Milton?” Wesson asked.

“What?” Castiel said dumbly.

“You, of all people . . . why would you agree with Dean?”

“We may be punished for it, but it is the right course of action. Captain Fallon is erratic, and that makes him dangerous. He is too unstable to be trusted.” _That is a lesson I learned all too well from Father_.

Winchester gazed at Castiel with a mixture of shock, respect, and awe. For some reason, Castiel felt warm inside.

Loud footfalls startled the lieutenants, and soon Mr. Milligan appeared. “Mr. Crowley knows you are not on deck, Mr. Winchester,” he panted. “And he has gone to alert the captain.”

“Dammit!” Winchester hissed. Panic overtook Wesson’s and Godwin’s features. “Let’s scatter. Quickly now.”

They scrambled out of the cargo hold, each flying in a different direction. Castiel paid no heed to his trajectory until he ran smack into Captain Fallon. His eyes rolled up to meet the captain’s, and he knew guilt was writ large upon his face.

“So you have been conspiring against me as well, Mr. Milton,” Fallon intoned. Castiel shivered at the almost preternatural menace in the man’s voice.

“No, sir,” Castiel breathed, taking a step back as Fallon crowded into his space. Even he could hear how unconvincing he sounded.

Fallon looked at him with disappointment. “And I had such high hopes for you, Mr. Milton.” He tapped a finger against the corner of his mouth. “Where are the others?”

“What?”

Fallon encroached farther into Castiel’s space, coming so close that their breaths almost mingled. Repulsed by their proximity, Castiel backed away, but Fallon followed him. Fallon’s breath smelled rancid.

“Do not take me for a fool,” Fallon warned.

“I would never.”

“Do not lie to me, Mr. Milton. Where are they?”

“I have no notion of what you mean.”

Fallon tried to walk past Castiel, but Castiel blocked his path. The captain may have realized Castiel had doubts, but he would not find the other lieutenants, not if Castiel could help it. “You dare to obstruct me?” Fallon snarled. Castiel continued to mirror Fallon’s movements, preventing Fallon from moving past him. After a few minutes, Fallon growled, grasped Castiel’s biceps, and thrust him toward the bulkhead. Castiel’s head hit the side of the ship, and all he could feel was it pounding, pounding, and that was all there was. When the pain lessened a bit, he felt his biceps burning, and he knew his skin would contain bruises by morning. He spun around, looking for any trace of where Fallon had gone, but that just made him nauseous and dizzy. He could only hope that Fallon had not stumbled upon any of the other lieutenants. He leaned against the bulkhead, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stabilize himself. Eventually, he heard a commotion in the distance, and he staggered through the corridors until he came upon the source.

Near the space above the cargo hold, an unconscious Captain Fallon had been strapped to a plank. A slightly inebriated Dr. Angle attended to him, wiping blood off of his temples and instructing an assistant in bandaging the gash on the captain’s head. Castiel watched as the two of them tended to Captain Fallon, almost numbed by the unexpected nature of this development. Winchester approached from the other side, and their eyes met briefly before Castiel returned to studying the spectacle before them.

“Help me carry him to his cabin,” Dr. Angle told his assistant.

“Yes, sir,” the young man replied. Together, they picked up the plank, and Castiel stepped aside so they could pass.

“What happened?” Castiel asked Winchester once the doctor and his assistant were gone.

“I don’t know,” Winchester replied. “He fell down the hatchway, I think.”

“You were here when it happened?”

“Yes.” Winchester sounded hesitant. He glanced down, and Castiel didn’t know what to make of his demeanor.

“So you saw it.”

“Yes.”

“How did he fall?”

“I don’t know. It was all so fast.” Winchester was holding his lantern. In its shadow, his face seemed uncharacteristically pale. Something about the situation struck Castiel as not quite right, just a niggle somewhere in the corner of his brain. But he decided not to worry about that at the moment.

“We should go up on deck,” Castiel said. They needed to know how the state of affairs would change with Captain Fallon incapacitated.

“Yes. I suppose we should.” But Winchester remained rooted to the spot.

Castiel snatched his hand and murmured, “Come.” Castiel guided Winchester up the stairs and released his hand once they reached the deck.

Many people milled about, rendering the atmosphere chaotic. Winchester clutched at his forehead as if the clamor stabbed into it. Across the deck, Castiel observed Crowley gazing at them suspiciously. Castiel attempted to ignore the stare despite how uneasy it made him.

After Christian Campbell, the sergeant of the marines, helped Mr. Rhodes and Mr. Wesson impose some semblance of order on deck, they learned that Mr. Godwin would be acting captain until Fallon had sufficiently recovered from what was evidently a concussion. Mr. Campbell, Mr. Rhodes, and Mr. Wesson herded everyone else off deck, and that left Castiel, Winchester, and Godwin alone.

“What now, sir?” Winchester asked.

“We shall return to our duties,” Godwin answered, “which means you have a thirty-six hour watch to resume.”

Winchester rubbed his eyes. “Do I have to? I’m so damn tired.”

“I cannot rescind an order given by Captain Fallon,” Godwin apologized. “Some might view it the wrong way.” He strode toward the stairs and descended below deck.

“What a son of a bitch,” Winchester grumbled.

“His logic does make sense,” Castiel admitted, even if he didn’t agree with Godwin’s decision. “If Captain Fallon should awake and allege a conspiracy, contradicting his orders would lend his claims legitimacy.”

Winchester leaned against the side of the ship, and Castiel joined him. Winchester closed his eyes. “I’m not sure how much longer I can stay awake.”

“I will take the watch with you. If you wish to sleep, I can wake you should anyone come on deck.”

Winchester opened one eye and looked at Castiel. “You surprise me, Mr. Milton.” More softly, he added, “In so many ways.”

Castiel wondered why Winchester would say that. He was about to pose the question when Winchester fell asleep, head lolling onto Castiel’s shoulder. He didn’t want Winchester to injure himself by sleeping while standing, so Castiel gently laid Winchester down on the deck. He stood up and whispered, “I will watch over you.” And it was like a confession to the stars, for only they heard him. The fog from earlier had dissipated, and now countless orbs twinkled above.


	5. Pinpricks

The sunrise was beautiful this morning, shades of reds and blues and purples and yellows swathed across the sky. The rotating colors cast a glow on the sleeping countenance of Lieutenant Dean Winchester, and Castiel was entranced by the beauty of the sight before him, the ever-changing hues highlighting Winchester’s eyelashes where they lay against his skin. His face _was_ very handsome.

Castiel frowned, remembering Father’s lectures on sodomy. One of the most disgusting sins of all, Father had dubbed it. Once, when Castiel had accompanied Father to the market, Castiel had remarked on the handsomeness of a man they were walking past. Father had turned to him, his face a mask of revulsion. The twelve-year-old Castiel had meant it as an observation, nothing more, but Father had been furious. He had dropped everything he’d bought and dragged Castiel by the hair until they arrived home. Anna and Rachel had watched wide-eyed as Father had shoved him into the library and locked the door.

Father had whipped him until his skin was numb and yelled himself hoarse. “Don’t you _ever_ say anything like that again!” he’d shouted. “Don’t even _think_ anything like that! I will _not_ have a deviant for a son!”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel had whispered, tears trickling down his cheeks. He still had not understood what he’d done wrong, not until a few days later, when Father had taught him and his sisters about the evils of sodomy.

But he _hadn’t_ felt any attraction of that nature toward the man at the market, so he had remained confused.

In fact, reflecting on Father’s lessons, Castiel could never remember being attracted to anyone, man or woman. He could objectively appreciate a person’s beauty, but attraction . . .

And that’s what he was doing now. Appreciating Mr. Winchester’s beauty. But he felt a twinge of _something_ , a slight difference in his appreciation of Winchester. He didn’t understand it, but he decided to ignore whatever it was. It probably meant nothing anyway.

Winchester stirred, blinking his eyes open slowly. Castiel could discern a pinprick of the sunrise’s colorful swirl amidst the hazel-green of Winchester’s eyes. It was breathtaking.

Winchester stretched and yawned. “Have you been watching me sleep all night, Mr. Milton?” he asked. Castiel just gazed back at him, and Winchester rubbed his back. “Why do you stare so much? Don’t you know how strange that is?”

No, he didn’t. People periodically made such remarks to him, but he could never quite grasp what they meant. “I apologize,” Castiel murmured as Winchester stood up.

“’s fine,” Winchester mumbled. “Is my watch over yet?”

“You still have a few more hours.”

“Damn.”

A few minutes later, Mr. Godwin and Mr. Wesson popped up on deck, expressions grim.

“Good morning, Mr. Godwin, Mr. Wesson,” Castiel said to them.

“Good mornin’,” Winchester echoed. “How’s the captain doin’?”

“That’s the problem,” Wesson answered. “Captain Fallon is still unconscious.”

“That’s a problem?” Winchester balked.

“Dean,” Wesson reproved him, glancing around as if afraid someone had overheard Winchester’s utterance.

“The problem is,” Godwin cut in, “Dr. Angle. He refuses to declare Captain Fallon unfit for command.”

“You’re joking, right?” Winchester huffed.

“No, unfortunately. He wants to wait and see how lucid the captain is once he wakes up.”

“And what until then?” Castiel inquired.

“As the most senior officer, I am acting captain in all but name,” Godwin explained.

Castiel pondered Godwin’s position. The man was in a rough spot. If he should make a decision Fallon later disagreed with, then he could be accused of usurping the captain’s authority since Dr. Angle had never dubbed Fallon unfit for his position. But how could anyone know which decisions Fallon would agree or disagree with? He was erratic.

“If the man is unconscious,” Winchester fumed, “then how can anyone argue he’s fit for command? Especially a doctor?”

They all knew the answer to that question, but no one dared voice it. It seemed they were damned no matter what. The only way for them to take full control of the ship was for Dr. Angle to certify the captain as unfit, but Dr. Angle himself was unfit to judge the captain.

Godwin cleared his throat. “In any event,” he continued, “we shall reach Samana soon. We need to prepare the crew for the upcoming engagement.”

“Quite right,” Castiel agreed.

“Meet me in the wardroom in one hour. All three of you.”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel, Winchester, and Wesson recited simultaneously.

As Godwin descended below deck, Winchester burst into hysterical laughter, the strain of recent events finally getting the best of him. He clutched his stomach, seemingly unable to stop. His eyes filled with tears of mirth, and Castiel couldn’t prevent his lips from twitching into a smile. Wesson, however, glared at Winchester, his ire growing the longer Winchester laughed, which only made Winchester laugh harder.

“Just. Wow,” Winchester wheezed between his dying giggles.

“Would you _stop_?” Wesson cried. “What the hell is so funny?”

“That was just priceless. We said that—wow. So perfectly timed.”

“You’re delirious. Probably because you haven’t slept in three days.”

“No, Sammy, I slept.” Wesson looked bewildered. Winchester gestured at Castiel with an elbow. “Mr. Milton stayed with me all night, see. Let me sleep a little.” He flashed a grin in Castiel’s direction, his eyes soft. Castiel was warmed by it, just as that one look from Winchester had warmed him last night. Castiel did not understand the sensation, or why he should feel it, but it was pleasant. He would like to experience it again.

“Oh,” Wesson mumbled. He turned to Castiel, and his expression was almost hostile. “Sorry, Dean,” he said. “I should have offered to stay up here with you.”

Did that explain Wesson’s attitude? Was he feeling guilty for not volunteering to take the watch with Winchester? Winchester seemed as puzzled by Wesson’s behavior as Castiel was. “It’s fine,” Winchester said.

“No, it’s not,” Wesson snapped. “You’re my cousin, but you’ve always been more like a brother. You took care of me, and I didn’t take care of you the one time you needed it. I—” Tears dripped down Wesson’s cheeks. “I let myself get distracted by everything happening last night; it was just so chaotic—”

“Sammy,” Winchester sighed. He enveloped Wesson in an embrace. “I told you,” he soothed, “it’s fine. Shh.”

After a minute, Wesson pulled back. He reddened when his eyes alit on Castiel, and he fled below deck.

“I apologize,” Castiel told Winchester. “I was intruding just now.” Castiel should have left when Wesson got upset. He had just witnessed something private between the two cousins, and he was ashamed he’d remained on deck.

“Don’t worry about it,” Winchester assured him. He smiled at Castiel again. “Thank you. For last night.”

“You are welcome.”

“Reload!” Castiel and Winchester yelled simultaneously. They were testing the crew, making sure the sailors could load the cannons quickly enough for when they encountered the enemy. Men shoved the metal balls into the cannons and shot them off while Castiel and Winchester timed their two groups.

“Two minutes,” Winchester concluded with a troubled frown. “What do you have, Mr. Milton?”

“Two minutes seven seconds,” Castiel read off of his stopwatch.

“Definitely not fast enough.”

“C’mon, you can do better than that!” Mr. Crowley shouted at the men under him. He cut his eyes at Castiel and Winchester before turning back to the gun crew. “Let’s make Captain Fallon proud!”

Winchester glanced at Castiel uneasily before they once again ordered, “Reload!”

After the shots were fired, Winchester consulted his stopwatch. “One minute thirty-eight seconds.”

“I have one minute thirty-five seconds,” Castiel replied. “Much better this time.”

Winchester shook his head. “Better, but not good enough.”

“Reload!” they hollered.

Winchester was just about to read his latest time when Mr. Milligan burst onto the gun deck. “Dr. Angle’s compliments, sirs,” he announced to Castiel and Winchester, “but he would like to see you in the captain’s cabin immediately. Captain Fallon was awake, he said.”

 _Was?_ What did that mean? “Thank you, Mr. Milligan,” Castiel replied. “Mr. Winchester and I will be up immediately.”

“Thank you, sirs.” As he spoke, Milligan studied the wooden planking beneath his feet as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. Castiel realized that Milligan had not met either his or Winchester’s eyes during their exchange. After his last words, Milligan scurried away as if making an escape.

“What do you think that was all about?” Winchester asked.

“Hmm?” Castiel hummed as he and Winchester strolled toward the captain’s quarters.

“Mr. Milligan. He was acting a bit odd, was he not?”

“Yes, I suppose that is true,” Castiel answered cautiously. He thought about the matter for a minute then conjectured, “Perhaps he is nervous about what will happen now that the captain has woken up.”

“I wouldn’t blame him.”

When they entered the captain’s cabin, Godwin and Wesson were already there. Dr. Angle stood beside Captain Fallon, who lay unconscious on his cot.

“I thought you said he was awake,” Winchester said.

Dr. Angle walked around Fallon’s cot and stood between them and the sleeping captain. “Yes. He did wake up.”

“He doesn’t look awake to me.”

“The captain was agitated. I gave him some laudanum to calm him down.”

Winchester whistled. “That must’ve been some dose,” he commented while eyeing the captain.

“He needs the rest. He still hasn’t fully recovered.”

“Did he say anything?” Godwin inquired. Dr. Angle raised an eyebrow. “About what happened when he fell.”

“No. At this time, he does not remember anything about the incident. That is not uncommon for people with injuries like his. But he shall regain his memories in due time.”

Winchester asked, “He will regain them, then? That is certain?”

“Yes, though I do not know how long the process will take.”

“Oh,” Winchester exhaled. Castiel did not miss Winchester’s shoulders tensing up. It must not have escaped Wesson’s notice, either, for he gave Winchester a questioning look.

“Do you know how long it will take Captain Fallon to recover?” Wesson asked.

“That I cannot say,” Dr. Angle replied.

“Would you say he is fit for command?” Godwin queried.

“I cannot give a fair assessment of the matter.”

“Quit prevaricating, dammit!” Winchester exclaimed, the intensity in his voice startling Castiel. “You’re the doctor; make a judgment. Is he or isn’t he fit for command?”

“The patient needs more rest before I can decide.”

“And what’re we supposed to do in the meantime? If Mr. Godwin here—” Winchester nodded at Godwin when he said his name “—cannot officially be acting captain, but the real captain is lying here incapacitated, how can we _do_ anything?”

“Just do as Captain Fallon would’ve wished.”

“And how are we to know that, huh? We will arrive at Samana soon, and when we do, we can’t just sit there in the damn bay. If we don’t attack right away, the Spanish will obliterate us.”

“Like I said,” Dr. Angle replied in measured tones, “do as you think the captain would wish.”

“To hell with this!” Winchester seethed before storming out of the cabin. Wesson’s eyes followed him disapprovingly.

“Mr. Winchester does have a point,” Wesson opined. “We need an official captain by the time we arrive in Samana. Someone to guide us in the endeavor against the Spanish.”

Dr. Angle sighed. “I suppose you are right, Mr. Wesson. I will make a decision before we arrive. You have my word.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

“Yes, thank you, doctor,” Castiel put in, “for apprising us of the current situation.”

“You are very welcome, Mr. Milton.”

After Godwin also thanked the doctor, the three lieutenants left the captain’s quarters. Godwin went up on deck to resume his watch, but Wesson headed toward Winchester’s cabin. Castiel decided he would go to the wardroom, but when he passed by Winchester’s cabin, he heard hushed conversation through the door, which had been left slightly ajar. Despite his conscience, Castiel couldn’t resist listening to the cousins’ conversation.

“What the hell, Dean?” Wesson fired.

“What, Sammy?” Winchester growled back.

“That display in the captain’s cabin. What the hell was that? Are you _looking_ for another reprimand?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then what?”

“I’m just so tired of it all, Sammy. I wish the doctor would make up his damn mind.”

Wesson sighed. “Look, we’re all weary of the situation. But you have to control yourself. Otherwise, things will get worse than they already are.”

“I’m not sure they can get any worse,” Winchester mumbled.

“What?” Winchester didn’t respond. “Dean, what are you talking about?”

“It’s nothing, Sam. Like I said, I’m just tired.” Castiel was startled by the tone in Winchester’s voice, or rather, the lack thereof. It sounded as if something had bleached it of life.

“Then you should get some rest. We’ll talk more later, Dean.”

“Good-bye, Sammy.”

Wesson headed toward the doorway, and Castiel flattened himself against the wall so the door would hide him when Wesson pushed it open. Castiel held his breath, horrified by the prospect of Wesson discovering him lurking nearby. When he reached around to close the door, he would see Castiel, and Castiel would have no explanation for his actions.

But when Wesson shut the door, he didn’t even look at the space behind it. He also left the door cracked open a sliver. Was that intentional? Why would he do that? Wesson whistled as he strolled toward his own cabin.

Castiel was about to resume the walk toward the wardroom when he heard Winchester call, “Mr. Milton?”

Had he been discovered? With trembling fingers, Castiel opened the door wider and replied, “Yes, Mr. Winchester?”

“Come in here and close the door behind you.”

After Castiel shut the door, he inquired, “What can I do for you, Mr. Winchester?”

Winchester waved a hand at the chair. “Sit down, will you?”

After Castiel had settled into the chair, he studied Winchester’s supine form. He lay on his cot, legs stretched out, the pose more rigid than Castiel would have expected from him. Castiel had not had occasion to study Winchester’s countenance, so now when Winchester turned his full gaze onto Castiel, for the first time he noticed that Winchester had dark circles under his eyes. Even though his long watch had ended two days ago, he must still be exhausted. His complexion was also more sallow than usual.

Castiel frowned. “Are you well?” he asked.

“Of course I’m well,” Winchester scoffed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh. It’s just that you look a bit ill.”

“Like I told Sammy, I’m just a little tired.” Castiel’s eyes widened at the smug inflection in Winchester’s voice. “Yes, I know,” he continued, “you were listening to Sammy and I talk.”

Abashed, Castiel picked at a hangnail on his right hand. “I apologize. I did not mean to eavesdrop.”

“Of course you did.” Castiel jumped. “Otherwise, you would not have done it.” He paused, and Castiel began to panic. Would Winchester reproach him now? “Don’t worry,” Winchester said at last. “I’m not mad.” Castiel inwardly sighed in relief. “But I wondered if I could ask you something.”

Castiel forgot about the hangnail. “Yes?”

Winchester sat up in the bed and faced him, eyes serious, flecks of hazel brighter than usual. “Have you ever—um.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Has something ever happened and—well, you don’t know how, or why? Or you don’t remember? No, that’s not what I mean.” Winchester scratched his chin. “You do remember, but you can’t quite put the pieces together.”

“I don’t know,” Castiel answered slowly. “Why?”

Winchester blushed. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about lately. I have nightmares about it.” Castiel wanted to ask, _About what?_ Except he thought he knew, and neither of them wanted to vocalize what Winchester was referring to.

“May I ask _you_ something?” Castiel countered.

“Sure.” Winchester leaned against the wall, drawing his knees up. He propped his chin up on his arms, which he crossed atop his knees. His whole body was wound tight, as if he was afraid of something but trying to put on a brave face.

“Why did you bring up this—thought—with me rather than Mr. Wesson?”

“Because I didn’t think Sammy would understand, but I thought, maybe, you might?” Castiel nodded. He did understand—sort of. He wasn’t completely certain of everything Winchester was implying, but he had found Winchester by the cargo hold that night, shaky and nervous. “Besides, he would interrogate me. I can’t handle that.” Winchester’s eyes grew wary, the hazel dots shrinking into the green. “You’re not going to interrogate me, are you?”

“No, Mr. Winchester.”

“Thank you. Do you mind if we keep this discussion between ourselves?”

“Of course not. I will say nothing of this to anyone.”

Castiel stepped onto deck, smiling at the bright sun. It was a gorgeous day, albeit hot. He was already starting to sweat. He pulled off his bicorne and swept a hand through his hair. It was slightly damp, probably due to the humidity. He replaced the hat on his head and commenced pacing the deck. He stopped at an opportune spot and gazed out at the sea. They would reach Samana soon. If not tomorrow, then the next day, and Spanish scouts might be trolling these waters.

All last night, he hadn’t been able to get Winchester’s words out of his mind. He still didn’t quite grasp why he would consult Castiel, of all people. Perhaps it was because Castiel had been the one to find him that fateful night, to ground him. Castiel was sure Winchester had despised him until then. So why would he turn to someone he probably didn’t even like?

Well, who else was there besides Wesson? Mr. Milligan? He was just a boy, and Winchester cared for him as if he were a younger brother, or maybe a nephew. Mr. Godwin? No, he already had too much to worry about. There was Dr. Angle, but Winchester wouldn’t want to arouse his suspicions.

Castiel had merely been the best out of a cadre of slim choices. The conversation meant nothing, he told himself. Though he would like to believe a tentative friendship might be developing between himself and Winchester, deep down he knew that was impossible. Since the _Renown_ was the biggest ship he had served on thus far, he had hoped he could befriend someone. But as always, no one had wanted to develop more than a passing acquaintance with him.

Boots stomped behind him, and he turned around to see who was there. And gasped.

“ _Mr. Winchester?!_ ” Castiel exclaimed, his eyes scanning the third lieutenant’s bare torso. “ _What are you doing?!_ ”

“Not wearing a shirt, obviously.”

Castiel’s cheeks burned. “That is highly inappropriate.”

Winchester shrugged. “What? It’s so damn hot.”

“But—but—” Castiel stammered.

“Come on. Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this.” A glimmer of heat passed through Winchester’s eyes, so quickly that Castiel believed he must have imagined it.

He had to admit that Winchester’s chest was—well-muscled. Yes, that was it. He was appreciating the aesthetic beauty of Winchester’s body, much as he would that of a Greek statue.

Except Greek statues were cold, made of marble or bronze, and Winchester was made of skin, warm, and his torso would be vibrant under Castiel’s hands—

Castiel shook his head to clear it of indecent thoughts. “Mr. Godwin will not be pleased.”

“Mr. Godwin won’t care,” Winchester responded.

“But _I_ do” a voice thundered down from behind. They flinched and whirled around to find the speaker. Captain Fallon, who stood on the uppermost deck and gazed down at them.

“Mr. Milton, Mr. Winchester, I wish to see you in my cabin. _Immediately_.”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel and Winchester replied together.

“And Winchester?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Put on a damn shirt.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Castiel followed Fallon to his cabin, where they waited for Winchester to arrive. Castiel clasped his hands behind his back, squeezing them together in an effort to steady his nerves.


	6. Prisoners

Winchester entered Fallon’s cabin, this time fully clad in his uniform. A minute later, Sergeant Campbell accompanied Mr. Godwin and Mr. Wesson inside.

“Mr. Godwin and Mr. Wesson as you requested, sir,” Campbell announced.

“Very good, Mr. Campbell. Thank you.” Fallon collapsed into the chair behind his desk, rubbing his cheeks before he addressed the group assembled before him. “Several nights ago, at least two lieutenants were plotting mutiny.” He directed his unblinking gaze on Castiel and Mr. Winchester. “These two.” He raised his voice and pointed at Winchester. “You! You attempted to _murder_ me!” He turned to Castiel and exclaimed, “And you were his accomplice!”

Everyone gaped at Fallon, stunned by the accusations. “Sir, you are mistaken—” Winchester began in a choked voice.

Fallon banged his fist on the desk. “Do not patronize me, Mr. Winchester!” He looked at the first lieutenant. “Mr. Godwin, arrest Mr. Milton and Mr. Winchester.”

“Sir—” Godwin attempted to protest.

“Those are orders, Mr. Godwin! Would you like to be arrested as well?”

“No, sir.”

“Then do your duty, dammit!” Fallon’s piercing eyes flitted between Godwin and Wesson. “And do not think I believe you innocent, Mr. Godwin, Mr. Wesson,” Fallon warned. “You may have escaped my notice that night, but my eye will be on you! You can be assured of that!”

“Yes, sir,” Godwin and Wesson exhaled in unison.

Fallon waved a hand at Castiel and Winchester. “Now get these traitors out of my sight!”

Sergeant Campbell and Mr. Godwin escorted Castiel and Winchester to the brig, Wesson following close behind. After Campbell and Godwin locked them in the cell, the latter gracing them with a pitying look, they left, but Wesson remained staring down at them. “Dean, what was the captain talking about?” he asked.

“What do you mean, Sammy?” Winchester rasped.

“When he said you tried to murder him. What was he talking about?”

Winchester shrugged. “Who knows? The man is crazy.”

Wesson examined Winchester as he considered his cousin’s answer. “Yes, I suppose that must be it.” He paused then said, “I must return to my duties. I’m sorry, Dean. I hate to leave you down here.” As an afterthought, he added, “And you, Mr. Milton.”

“That’s all right, Sammy. We understand,” Winchester replied.

“Good-bye, Dean, Mr. Milton.”

After Wesson left them alone, Castiel pondered whether he himself should pose Wesson’s question to Winchester. He had been the one to encounter Winchester the night Fallon had been incapacitated. Wesson had not seen how shaken Winchester had been, but Castiel had. At the time, he had assumed Fallon’s fall had been an accident, as had everyone else on the ship.

But what if it wasn’t?

Castiel hated to think that Winchester had purposefully pushed Fallon down the hatchway. He had been growing fond of the third lieutenant, and Winchester . . . well, he didn’t seem capable of such cold-hearted cruelty. But Castiel admitted that the idea of killing Fallon had a certain logic to it. He remembered the debate about the merits of mutiny.

 _To preserve his good name, they may make us into sacrificial lambs_ , Castiel had said.

 _Then he would still be a captain, free to carry on as he has been_ , Winchester had replied.

If Fallon was dead, his irrational behavior could no longer harm anyone. Not Mr. Milligan, and not those who might have served with Fallon in the future.

Would that thought have occurred to Winchester during that fateful night? Would he have acted upon it, perhaps made a desperate decision for the sake of the future?

Castiel did not want to believe it.

But that did not make it untrue.

“Mr. Winchester,” Castiel inquired finally, “how did the captain come to fall down the hatchway?”

Winchester studied him with hard eyes. “Do not ask me that question.”

All of a sudden, Castiel _understood_. Winchester himself didn’t know the answer to that question. Yesterday’s conversation about the vagaries of memory—that meant Winchester _did not know_.

He sympathized with Winchester. It must be difficult not to know how one had behaved during a pivotal moment. Not to know what one had done.

They sat in uneasy silence for what must have been hours. At one point, Winchester shed his coat, and Castiel observed him with a critical eye.

“What?” Winchester grumbled. “It’s even hotter down here than it was up there.”

Winchester was right about that. But Castiel would not peel off any part of his uniform. It would be improper.

Eventually, Winchester muttered, “So, your father beat you, huh?”

The question startled Castiel. How did Winchester know that? Oh, yes, he had read Castiel’s journal a few days ago. An egregious invasion of privacy. Why did Winchester mention that topic? “How is that a suitable way to begin a conversation?”

Winchester shrugged. “Just thought we could maybe talk about somethin’.”

“But _that_?”

“My father beat me, too,” Winchester admitted, his voice so soft Castiel almost wasn’t sure whether he had heard Winchester speak.

“What?”

Winchester smiled grimly. “Seems like we have something in common.”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel’s heart throbbed, just for a moment, before he tamped down the emotion. He could not afford to grow attached to Winchester. Attachment would lead only to disappointment, because the other party would not reciprocate. It had happened before; on his first voyage, he had believed himself and another midshipman were friends. But eventually the midshipman had made his scorn for Castiel clear, and he, along with the other midshipmen, had relentlessly teased Castiel for his awkwardness. The lieutenants had often praised Castiel’s fine work, which had provided further fodder for his peers.

No, no one ever liked him. Except for his sisters.

Winchester sighed. “I wish it had been just me.”

“Do you have siblings?”

“No. But Mama . . . ” Winchester’s eyes watered, and he balled his hands into fists. “It was so frustrating watching the way he treated her and not being able to do anything about it. Thank God he wasn’t home half the time.”

“Where was he?”

“He served in the navy.” Castiel noticed Winchester was watching him intently, as if to gauge his reaction. Or plumb his depths. Why? Was he looking for a reason to deride Castiel? “I suppose it’s sort of the family business. Never got above lieutenant, though. Thank God he’s not around to torment Mama anymore.” Castiel gave him a questioning look. “He died at sea. In battle.” He considered Castiel for a minute then added, “I was glad when my father died. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all.” Though Castiel himself felt a pang of guilt, remembering his relief when he had learned of Zachariah Milton’s death. The reverend had died of natural causes shortly after delivering his last sermon. No matter how awful Father’s actions had been, it was wrong to be glad of such things, was it not?

But Castiel could not feel otherwise.

“If only Mama had been able to leave him,” Winchester murmured. “It should be permissible, dammit.”

“My sister left her husband,” Castiel revealed, “because he beat her.”

Winchester whistled. “Brave woman.” He chewed his lip then continued, “You have two sisters, don’t you?”

“Yes. Anna and Rachel. They used to live with Anna’s husband; now they live alone.”

“Wow. They sound remarkable.”

With a surge of fondness, Castiel grinned. “Yes. They are.”

After a bit of silence, Winchester posited, “So. Do you think we will really hang?”

Castiel frowned. He did not like to imagine the bleak future awaiting them. “Probably.”

“Dammit. Sam will be spared, at least.” The reality of their situation slammed into Castiel’s consciousness, and he felt sick. Winchester’s eyes widened. “Mr. Milton? Are you all right?”

Castiel attempted to hold back the tears, but a rogue sob escaped him. “I am the only source of income for my sisters. What will happen to them?”

“Damn. I’m sorry. Who knows, maybe we’ll be saved from the court-martial.”

Castiel snorted. “I highly doubt that.” He decided to bring the subject back to Winchester’s family; doing so would distract him from morbid thoughts about their fate. “You and Mr. Wesson are cousins.”

“Yes. Our mothers are sisters.” Winchester’s face lit up. “Sam’s parents run a bakery. God, they make the most delicious pies. Sometimes they would leave Sam at our house when business got busy. We really were like brothers.” He looked thoughtful. “But I never told him about how my father behaved. I’ve never told anyone, actually. Just you.”

 _That_ was unexpected. Castiel felt something he could not quite define. “Why?”

Winchester scuffed his boot on the ground. “I didn’t want to burden Sammy with it.”

Yes, Castiel could decipher that much for himself. “No. I mean, why did you tell me?”

“Like I said earlier. Just makin’ conversation.” Castiel narrowed his eyes at Winchester, irked by the lie. Winchester sighed. “All right. I just—I don’t know. Thought you might like to know I can relate.” He lowered his voice as if the admission embarrassed him. “That you’re not alone.”

“Oh.” Castiel did not know how to respond. Was Winchester being sincere? In the navy, no one had ever been so considerate of him before. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester. That is very kind.”

Winchester’s face reddened, no doubt because of the heat.

No one visited them, and Castiel dozed off out of sheer boredom. He was jolted awake by the sound of boots stomping toward them. The newcomer was Sam Wesson, who balanced two bowls and two glasses in his arms.

“Here. I brought you food,” Wesson explained. He put the items down and withdrew a set of keys, which he used to unlock the grille above them. He handed the bowls and glasses to Castiel and Winchester then locked the brig again. Wesson averted his eyes. “Sorry. I hate leaving you in there.”

“Don’t worry about it, Sammy,” Winchester said as he crossed his legs and settled the bowl on his lap. “It’s not your fault.”

Wesson looked back down at Winchester. “I feel so bad about it. Why arrest you and Mr. Milton? Why not me?” He shook his head. “It’s not fair.”

“What are you doing down here anyway? Captain Fallon probably thinks it’s suspicious. Maybe he even has Mr. Crowley spying on you.”

“No. I checked.” Wesson shrugged. “Someone had to bring you food.”

“I guess so.” Winchester dug into his gruel and dumped a large spoonful into his mouth. “Mmm. It’s nice to know the food hasn’t improved.” Wesson and Winchester laughed. When their mirth dissipated, Winchester looked at Castiel. “Better eat, Mr. Milton. Who knows when we’ll see our next meal?”

Castiel’s stomach twisted at the idea of eating, but Winchester was right. He took a sip of ale and scooped a small helping of gruel into his mouth. After a couple more bites, he spit out the contents.

“Good God, Mr. Milton, are you all right?” Winchester asked.

“I . . . ” Castiel felt as if he would vomit. “I have an upset stomach. Perhaps it is due to nerves.” Castiel tried to keep his mind blank, but he failed. Everything would rush through his head—Anna, Rachel, Winchester, Samana Bay, Santo Domingo, Kingston. What Captain Fallon had in store for him and Winchester.

“I understand. Still, I think you should try to eat if you can.”

“I know,” Castiel mumbled. He gulped down his ale, and it tasted like poison.

Wesson watched Castiel and Winchester, expression serious. “I think we may be engaging the enemy tomorrow,” he finally said, his voice low. He shook his head. “I fear what may happen, Dean. How will we fare without two of our lieutenants? And with Captain Fallon leading the campaign, to boot.”

“You can defeat them,” Winchester replied. “I have faith in you, Sammy. You’ll think of something.”

“Defeat them? Not a chance. We’d be lucky to survive, what with the crew—” Wesson stopped mid-sentence, and Winchester looked puzzled.

“What is wrong with the crew?” Castiel ventured.

“Captain Fallon has issued them a ration of double grog.”

“What, on the eve of battle?”

“Yes, Mr. Milton.”

That would pose many problems. The crew would still be drunk once battle commenced, or if not drunk, then dealing with the illness that comes once inebriation has passed. Would they be able to operate the cannons? Castiel and Winchester had drilled the crew into efficiency, but all that training would come undone.

How could a seasoned veteran like Captain Fallon be so irresponsible? The man must truly not be the captain he once was.

“Why?” Castiel asked. “Do you know?”

“He says it motivates the crew, makes them loyal.”

“What good is loyalty if the men can’t function?” Winchester pointed out. “Dammit. We’re doomed, aren’t we?”

They could die tomorrow, and Castiel realized he did not fear such a result. Anna and Rachel would receive a pension, which was better than the alternative a court-martial provided.

That night, Winchester and Castiel fell into a fitful sleep. They were awoken in the morning (at least Castiel assumed it must be the morning) by cannon blasts. The ship jostled, and the noise was deafening.

The battle had begun, and he and Winchester were powerless to help.


	7. The Battle of Santo Domingo

Crew members rushed by, grabbing supplies. Winchester and Castiel spotted Mr. Crowley and called out to him.

“Hey, get us out of here, will you?” Winchester blurted.

“Now why would I do that?” Crowley sneered.

“C’mon. You know you can’t handle the guns by yourself.”

Crowley looked unsure. Perhaps that meant they could convince him to release them. “You require every resource you can get your hands on,” Castiel added, “including us.”

Crowley appeared to be contemplating the idea, but then Winchester yelled, “Let us out, dammit! That’s an order!”

Crowley’s countenance hardened. “No.” He fled up the companionway.

“I thought we had him,” Winchester said.

Castiel glared at him. “We had.” If only Dean had not become so authoritarian, they might have been released.

“What? Why are you lookin’ at me like that?”

Castiel crossed his arms over his chest. “I believe you can deduce that for yourself.” Yet Winchester continued to look bewildered. Castiel rolled his eyes. Winchester could not be _that_ dense, could he?

A blast hit the ship somewhere close by, and they were tossed onto the other side of the brig.

While Winchester and Castiel fought to maintain their footing, fireballs punched through the ship, and water leaked in through the holes.

“They’re using heated shot!” Castiel exclaimed.

“I wouldn’t worry about that, Mr. Milton,” Winchester replied. “We’ll drown before we burn.”

Indeed, Winchester’s observation was accurate. Water poured into their cell at a rapid pace. Already, it filled the space up to their knees. “I suppose we will soon be dead,” Castiel lamented.

“Do not give up yet, Mr. Milton.” Winchester gripped the grille above them. “Help me with this.”

Castiel placed his hands on the grille, though he knew the effort would be fruitless. Winchester was only giving himself false hope, for they would not be able to pry it open. Still, it was worth a try.

Both he and Winchester heaved at the grille, but to no avail. The water had now risen to Castiel’s waist. “Dammit!” Winchester hollered, slamming a knuckle against the grille and wincing. The rushing water roared in Castiel’s ears, and while he felt a little panicked, he was mostly calm.

A faint sound joined that of the flowing water. At first, Castiel thought he was imagining it, but the sound grew closer. He glanced up and saw Wesson sprinting toward them, keys in hand.

“Thank God,” Winchester muttered. “Get us outta here, Sammy.”

Wesson rolled his eyes. “Why do you think I’m here?” He unlocked the door and grasped Winchester’s hand, helping him up. Once he was out of the brig, Winchester extended a hand toward Castiel, and Castiel clasped it, his mind dimly registering the strength of Winchester’s grip.

“Thank you, Mr. Wesson,” Castiel said when he’d joined the cousins.

“Don’t thank me yet, Mr. Milton.” He gestured upward. “It’s chaos up there. We need your help. Now.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Winchester remarked.

They scrambled up to the deck. Castiel surveyed the surroundings. Captain Fallon was cowering in the middle of the deck, arms wrapped around himself and muttering what seemed to be nonsense. Lieutenant Godwin stood near the edge of the deck, staring aghast at the island and its fort.

“Mr. Godwin?” Winchester prompted.

Godwin spun around to face them, his eyes wild as he spoke. “We’ve run aground,” he recited as if in a trance. “Good God, we’ve run aground.”

“Then we need to get her off,” Winchester said.

“It is of no use. We are dead already.”

“We can still try,” Castiel argued, remembering his conclusion while trapped in the brig mere minutes ago.

“Quite right, Mr. Milton,” Winchester agreed. “We should get a cable out through a stern port. I’ll take a boat and stand by to take the cable while Rhodes feeds out the cable. Mr. Milton, you can bring the anchor around in the launch. Sam, you can man the capstan.” He glanced around at the other lieutenants. “What do you think?”

“A fine plan, Mr. Winchester,” Godwin said. He called to Ash Rhodes and informed him of his task.

“What is being done about the captain?” Winchester asked.

“I have sent Milligan for the doctor. I don’t know where they are.” He gave Winchester a hard look. “Shouldn’t you get started with those plans?”

“Right. Yes, sir.”

Wesson left for the capstan while Castiel and Winchester gathered a few crew members and set off in their boats. In the launch, Castiel’s men progressed at an excruciatingly slow pace. “Row faster!” he ordered. “Heave!” Their speed increased, though not by much. When he and Winchester’s boats arrived at their destination, Rhodes, who had ridden with Winchester, maneuvered the cable.

“We need more slack, Mr. Rhodes!” Winchester shouted.

“Aye aye, sir,” Rhodes replied as he spooled out more cable.

“Feed it to the anchor ring!” Winchester commanded the men. “Quickly now!”

After the men threaded the cable through the anchor ring, Castiel took possession of the ring in order to finish the job. Something caught on his arm, and he couldn’t move it.

“My arm is trapped!” Castiel cried. The current pulled him under, and no, this was not how he wanted to die, not now, not like this, drowning after escaping the same fate in the brig. He attempted to yank his arm out of the anchor ring, but it wouldn’t budge. He felt himself falling deeper, ever deeper, clinging desperately to consciousness. For he knew if he lost it, he would never regain it. But his lungs burned with the lack of air, and oh, it just seemed so much more peaceful to close his eyes and let the oblivion wash over him—

Something wrapped around him and dragged him he knew not where until his back landed flat against a hard surface and blessed air hit his skin. He coughed, gasping for air, but his eyes remained closed.

“Cas? Cas!” someone yelled.

“Mmm,” Castiel moaned. His eyes fluttered open. He could make out the water droplets dripping from his lashes, and through them, blurrily, Lieutenant Dean Winchester. “Who is Cas?” he murmured.

“You are,” Winchester replied. Castiel looked at him with confusion, and Winchester flushed. “Sorry, Mr. Milton. I meant no disrespect. I was merely afraid—”

Castiel sat up and attempted to orient himself. Cas. It was a nickname. No one had ever bestowed him with a nickname. Nicknames signified affection. Stunned, Castiel recognized that Winchester must be fond of him. He liked it, this warmth blossoming in his chest. _Cas_. A nickname.

“An apology is unnecessary,” Castiel informed Winchester, rubbing his eyes. “You may call me Cas if you wish. If I may call you Dean?” He added the last part tentatively, with bated breath. Perhaps Winchester did not want to establish such familiarity between them. Perhaps Winchester regretted uttering that one syllable, _Cas_.

Winchester beamed. “Of course you can. Cas.”

“Dean.” Castiel tried out the name again, appreciating the way it sounded in the timbre of his voice, the way it tasted on his tongue.

“All right. Now that we’ve established that. We need to get back to the ship.”

“Oh. Yes.” Castiel reached for a pair of oars, and Winchester—Dean—swatted his arms away.

“No. Just rest for a minute. There will be plenty to do once we get back.”

“I should help.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“ _No_. And that’s final.”

“I am the senior officer,” Castiel reminded Dean petulantly.

“Yes, you are. Which is why we need you in top condition once we’re on the ship again.”

“Fine.” Dean did make a valid point. “Dean?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For saving me.”

Dean flashed a teasing smile. “Thank _you_ for not drowning on me.”

As Dean helped the men row, Castiel wondered, “Who is bringing the launch back?”

“I’ve assigned the task to Mr. Rhodes. He and Mr. Fitzgerald have everything under control.”

“That is good.”

Once they arrived at the _Renown_ , Castiel, Dean, and the other crew members climbed up onto deck. Fallon still appeared disoriented, and Milligan and Dr. Angle stood near him nervously. Godwin’s eyes darted around the area before settling on Castiel and Dean. “It didn’t work,” Godwin said. “We’re still aground.”

“Then we need to do something in addition to having the men work at the capstan,” Dean mused.

“Yes,” Castiel agreed.

Dean smiled. “I think I have an idea. Load the cannons with double shot.” He turned to Castiel. “What do you think?”

Castiel immediately comprehended the logic behind Dean’s proposal. “Yes, I believe that might work.”

“What would be the point of that?!” Godwin exclaimed. He gestured at the fort in the distance. “It’s too high for us to hit. And for double shot to work, we would have to be closer.—”

“The point would not be to hit the fort, sir,” Castiel explained. “Rather, with the tide working to our advantage at the moment, the recoil might help propel us off of the island.”

Godwin contemplated the proposition. “Ah. I see. Yes. Carry on with the plan, gentlemen.”

“All right. Cas, will you man the guns?” Castiel nodded. “Good. I’ll assist Sam at the capstan.”

“Hold!” the captain bellowed. He strode toward the three lieutenants, Dr. Angle trailing behind him. “This is my ship, and none of you give the orders!” He jabbed a finger at Dean then at Castiel. “What the hell are you two doing up here?” He examined the scene around him, wrath consuming his light blue eyes. “Who let the traitors out?” he roared. Winchester made to move past the captain, but Fallon gripped his shoulder. “Oh, no you don’t!” he jeered. “Belay Mr. Godwin’s orders. You will do nothing. _Nothing_. We are not leaving here until that fort is destroyed.”

“But, sir—” Godwin fretted.

“Those are orders, Mr. Godwin!” Fallon screeched. “ _Orders!_ Will you disobey your captain as these treasonous dogs have?” His gaze encompassed Dean and Castiel. “Or maybe you wish to kill me, like Mr. Winchester.”

“Sir—”

“If we stay here, we’re good as dead,” Dean observed.

“Better dead than fleeing like a bunch of cowards!” Fallon countered.

Dean removed Fallon’s hand from his shoulder. “Let me go. You know as well as I do that using double shot is our only chance for survival.” Castiel winced at Dean’s hard tone, the lack of respect, the omission of that key word, “sir.”

Fallon drew a gun from underneath his coat and pressed it against Dean’s chest. “No. And if you defy me further, Mr. Winchester, I will not hesitate to shoot.”

Dean’s eyes flickered to Dr. Angle. “Don’t you see he’s mad?” Dean pleaded. “That he’s unfit for duty?”

“Sergeant Campbell!” Fallon shouted.

Campbell came forward. “Yes, sir?”

“Arrest Mr. Winchester and Mr. Milton. Get them off my deck.” Campbell eyed Dean and Castiel uncertainly.

“We don’t have time for this,” Dean spat as he attempted to shove past Fallon.

“Stop!” Fallon ordered, his gun still trained on Dean. “I _will_ shoot.” Dean froze.

“Dr. Angle, please,” Dean begged.

Fallon’s finger squeezed the trigger.

“No!” Castiel shrieked.

But Fallon had not pulled the trigger all the way back. “Pop.” An amused grin adorned his face. “Bang, bang!” He laughed, the sound something devilish.

“Dr. Angle, please,” Dean repeated. “Stop prevaricating.”

“Shut up!” Fallon hurled. “Or I _will_ shoot!”

“Fine,” Dr. Angle snapped. “Yes!” He turned to Sergeant Campbell. “Disarm him and take him to his quarters.”

“You, too, Dr. Angle? You would betray me?”

“Restrain him if you must,” Dr. Angle added.

Campbell gathered his marines, and together they managed to pry Fallon off deck.

“You are acting captain now, Mr. Godwin,” Dr. Angle said. He narrowed his eyes at Dean. “Damn you, boy. I will never forgive you for this.”

“You saw how erratic his behavior was,” Dean retorted. “You did the right thing, and you know it.”

“Under duress. God help us all.” He stomped away and descended below deck, returning to sickbay.

“Mr. Godwin, sir? Captain?” Dean ventured.

At the word “captain,” Godwin glowed with pride. “Oh, yes. Mr. Winchester, Mr. Milton. You may commence with the double shot.”

“Thank you.”

Castiel strode toward where the cannons had been set up and instructed the men to use double shot. At first, Mr. Crowley followed the command resentfully, struggling to make the inefficient men execute the motions. However, when they felt a little something, as if the ship might have moved an inch, he grew impressed. “Faster, gentlemen!” Crowley urged. A few men continued to move sluggishly, though. One toppled over and groaned.

Crowley howled at the laggards to do their jobs. When they saw the fire in the gunner’s beady eyes, they commenced doing their work properly.

Castiel felt comfortable leaving Crowley in charge, so he decided to join Dean and Wesson at the capstan. There, Wesson, Dean, and many other men pushed the rotating levers, their muscles straining. Castiel noted Dean’s muscles in particular. He had taken off his jacket, and his muscles were visibly taut underneath his tunic. Suddenly, Castiel felt as if he had been punched in the gut. This was what Father had warned him about, he realized. For he didn’t just admire Dean’s beauty, he was _attracted_ to it, and everything else about the man.

But did he really care for Father’s rules? Goddamn Zachariah Milton and his moral code.

Castiel did not throw off his coat as Dean and Wesson had done, but he gripped one of the bars all the same and started to heave. The ship was moving, but at an infinitesimal rate. Finally, when Castiel felt as if his muscles would burn away, the ship hit the water. The men cheered.

Dean grinned, his face drenched with sweat. “We did it!” he marveled.

Castiel returned his smile. “Yes. Thanks to your quick thinking.”

“What can I say, I’m a genius.” Wesson scoffed.

Tomorrow morning, in his capacity as acting captain, Godwin would meet with the other three lieutenants to discuss strategy. Tonight, though, everyone required rest. Castiel was still thanking the Lord they had somehow managed to maneuver the _Renown_ back into the sea.

After supper, Castiel departed the wardroom, and Dean followed him. Reflexively, Castiel closed the door behind them before he sat down on his bed. Dean flopped down next to him. Too weary to care for the impropriety of it, Castiel removed his coat and flung it at the desk. He was surprised when Dean followed suit, tossing his coat to the ground. Though reflecting on Dean’s personality, he supposed he shouldn’t be.

Castiel ran a hand through his damp hair and looked at Dean from out of the corner of his eye. “We had a long day,” Castiel remarked.

“We sure did.” Castiel turned to face Dean fully, and he was astounded at the expression that greeted him. Dean’s face was serious, his eyes shining.

Castiel tilted his head as he considered the man before him. “Dean? Are you all right?”

“Yes. No.” Dean swallowed. “It’s dumb, really.”

“Surely that is not so.”

Dean laughed without mirth. “Oh, but it is.” He examined Castiel as if deliberating something before he continued. “Um. It’s just that. You almost _died_ today.”

“I did,” Castiel replied calmly.

“And you don’t know—” Dean swiped at his eyes. “When I thought you were _dead_ , how I _felt_ , so helpless—”

Castiel was amazed that Dean seemed so emotional at the idea of Castiel dying. He placed a hand atop Dean’s. “But it’s all right. I am not dead.”

“But you could have been.”

“But I am not.”

Dean’s hazel-green eyes met his, and Castiel lost his breath for a moment. He marveled at the earnestness there, the rawness, as if Dean could not prevent his innermost self from leaking through.

Then Dean’s hands were cupping his face, and his lips were on Castiel’s, so moist, so _delicious_ , the mix of earthiness, ocean, and gun powder—

But then Dean abruptly pulled back.

“I’m sorry. That was not all right.”

“No.” Dean lowered his eyes. The naked shame on his face smote something in Castiel. “It was perfectly all right.”

Dean glanced up at him, expression astonished. Castiel drank in the sight of him. That kiss had been exquisite, and whatever Dean had meant by it, it didn’t compare to Balthazar Angle’s intentions when he’d accosted Castiel during his first night on the _Renown_. There was a thread vibrating between him and Dean, something connecting them. Castiel did not know when it had formed, but he understood that Dean felt it, too.

“You really do stare too much,” Dean said, breaking the silence. “Seriously. It’s a little unsettling. It’s like—like you can see straight into me.” Castiel blinked. “That probably sounds stupid.”

“Not at all.” Castiel leaned toward Dean, and their lips met again, this time with more urgency. Dean shoved Castiel onto his back, pinning him in place by planting his knees on either side of Castiel’s waist. Dean’s tongue surged into his mouth, and the sensation, it felt so _good_ , almost like too much, but Castiel didn’t want it to stop.—

Dean’s hands rolled up his tunic, too fast for Castiel to grasp the situation and protest. Dean’s hands on Castiel’s chest were warm, but when he looked down, he would be disgusted.

Dean straightened up. He rested on his knees, eyes widening as he gazed down at Castiel’s muscled torso, the flesh desecrated. “What the hell? What happened, Cas?”

Castiel sat up, his shirt falling down to cover the indelible mark. The upside down pentagram Father had carved into his chest. To remind him of how evil he had been to choose the navy over the clergy. “Father happened,” Castiel drawled.

“What? My father did some terrible stuff, but nothing like that.”

“Father was a preacher. No ‘sin’ ever came without its punishment,” Castiel spat.

“What made him think you deserved _that_?”

“I told him I wanted to join the navy.”

“What?”

“I rejected a vocation in the clergy."

The scene played vividly in Castiel’s mind. After weeks of consideration and increasing resolve, Castiel had finally gathered the courage to inform Father of his plans. He had long held a fascination with ships and the ocean, and he had wished for his life to serve some purpose, just not Father’s.

The Royal Navy had seemed the perfect choice.

In the library, Anna and Rachel lingered nearby while Castiel spoke to Father. When Castiel finished, Father grabbed him by the collar, and spittle hit his cheeks as Father hurled, “You would dare to reject the Lord your God?!”

“No, Father, please,” Castiel squeaked. “That is not what I meant.”

“But it is! You should place nothing above the Lord, and yet you would serve your country over Him?”

“Why can I not serve the Lord as an officer in the navy?”

“You can, as a chaplain. That would be acceptable.”

“No.” Castiel cringed, knowing this defiance would cost him. But he could never have envisioned what Father had in store for him.

Father’s eyes blazed, and he shoved Castiel down, his back hitting the carpet with a painful thud. Anna and Rachel skittered toward the doorway, but Father turned to them and yelled, “No! Stay! You shall see what the godless deserve!” Castiel attempted to stand up, but Father kicked him in the side, and Castiel felt a bruise forming on his ribs. “Oh, no, you don’t!” Father warned. He kept his boot pressed to Castiel’s side so his son could not escape. He bent down and ripped Castiel’s shirt open, exposing his pale flesh and small frame. He stood up and examined Castiel with a sneer. Castiel shrank under his gaze, feeling entirely too exposed. “You think the navy would even want a weakling like you?!” Father looked to the girls. “Rachel.” Rachel jumped at the mention of her name. Father gestured toward the roaring fireplace. “Heat up the poker and bring it to me.” Castiel did not understand what Father intended to do. He had known Father would do _something_ , but Castiel now felt a deep terror as it dawned on him that he might not know everything Father was capable of.

“Father, please—” Rachel beseeched him, her eyes glistening.

“Do as I say, girl!”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered. Castiel rolled his eyes toward Rachel, watching as she obeyed Father. After an eternity, Father said, “That’s enough. Rachel, dear, bring that to me.”

Rachel approached Father like a frightened mouse, her face a study in horror. Father snatched the poker from Rachel and pointed it down at Castiel, the sharp end almost touching his skin. Its tip was still reddened. “All my life,” Father intoned. “You have defied me.” No, Castiel had tried to be obedient, he really had, if only to escape Father’s punishments. “I have attempted to instruct you in the ways of the Lord, but you have always been an obstinate child. Wicked. You are the trial God has sent me. A son worse than a heathen.” He pressed the tip of the poker to Castiel’s breastbone, and Castiel clenched his teeth as he attempted to maintain his composure. It _burned_. So much, more than he could have ever imagined.

But that was nothing compared to what would come.

Father dug into Castiel’s skin with the hot poker, drawing a pattern Castiel was unable to discern. For he was too busy screaming, his whole chest aflame, as if he’d been lit on fire. He dimly perceived Rachel’s wails, but mostly everything was _fire_ and _burning_ and _pain_.

Castiel probably lost consciousness at some point.

When he was finished, Father tossed the poker toward the fireplace and laughed. “You are Satan’s child. Now everyone will know.”

“Father,” Anna said, glancing at Castiel’s torso. Only then did Castiel realize he was bleeding. Of course he was bleeding. How could it be otherwise? “We need to get him to a doctor.”

“Let him lie there and rot in his sin,” Father replied.

Anna crossed her arms over her chest and repeated, “He needs a doctor.” Even through the pain, Castiel admired Anna’s tenaciousness.

“No. It is no less than he deserves.” He glared at Anna. “And if I hear of you seeking any doctor, you will pay for your sin as well.” Father stalked out of the library. Once he was gone, Anna and Rachel rushed toward Castiel and knelt beside him. Rachel’s face was splotchy, her eyes still leaking tears. Anna’s eyes, however, were clear, not a speck of moisture in sight.

“I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him,” Rachel screeched. Later, Castiel would be surprised at this declaration from the mild-mannered sister who had sometimes defended Father.

“I will find some towels,” Anna said. She left the room, and Rachel continued to weep above him. Everything around Castiel was so hazy that he wasn’t sure of what was really happening.

After Anna returned with the towels, she wrapped them around Castiel’s torso. “We need to get him to bed,” she told Rachel. “Help me, will you?”

Rachel nodded. They struggled to lift him up, bracing him by throwing one of his arms around each of their necks. Somehow, they reached his bedroom, and Castiel sank into the bed, his eyes closing.

Castiel didn’t tell Dean any of this, though. Instead, he burst into hysterical laughter. Dean stared at him with bewilderment, which only made Castiel laugh harder. “Sorry,” Castiel wheezed between giggles. “It’s not really funny.”

“No. I didn’t think it would be,” Dean replied.

Castiel leaned against the wall as he continued laughing. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop. Then tears were dripping down his cheeks, and where did those come from?

“Oh, Cas,” Dean breathed, his own eyes wet. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

As the giggles finally subsided, Castiel wiped at his eyes. “So am I, Dean. So am I.”

Dean rubbed a thumb over Castiel’s knuckles, and it soothed the disquiet in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Capstan: A rotating machine used to apply force. [Here's](http://navalmarinearchive.com/research/shanties_biblio.html) a picture of a basic one.
> 
> Launch: A boat sent out from a ship.
> 
> Cable: A wire or rope.
> 
> Anchor Ring: A ring made from an iron bar.
> 
> Stern Port: The stern refers to the outer part of the ship farthest back.


	8. Interlude

Castiel, Dean, and Wesson had assembled in the wardroom, first eating breakfast then sipping at their coffee. They wondered what Godwin would say to them once he arrived. Someone burst into the room. All three heads swiveled toward the door, expecting to see Godwin, but it was Dr. Angle instead.

“Good morning, doctor,” Dean said.

Dr. Angle glowered at the lieutenants as he downed the contents of his flask. “This is not a social call, gentlemen. I have come to warn you.”

Dean scrunched up his eyebrows. “Warn us? Of what?”

“You may think that yesterday’s— _events_ —may prevent a court-martial. If so, you are sorely mistaken.”

“How’s that?”

“You did say Captain Fallon was unfit for command,” Wesson pointed out.

“So I did. But I was _forced_ , and I will not hesitate to tell the court it was so.”

“The captain was obviously out of his mind!” Dean exclaimed.

“Yes. But why?”

Dean shrugged. “How would I know?”

“The captain alleges that you pushed him down the hatchway, Mr. Winchester. Such a fall could have resulted in brain damage.”

“Yes, Dr. Angle, so no doubt his memory is faulty. He _fell_. I did not push him.”

“The captain claims the incident happened because you and Mr. Milton—” Dr. Angle’s eyes flicked to Castiel then back to Winchester. “—were plotting mutiny. Personally, I believe all three of you, and Mr. Godwin, were involved in the conspiracy. When we reach Kingston, I hope every last one of you hangs. Your disrespect for Captain Fallon, a national hero—” Dr. Angle did not finish the sentence, instead conveying his opinion via the disgust on his face. As he turned to leave, Mr. Godwin strolled into the wardroom.

“Oh, good morning, Dr. Angle!” Godwin greeted him, a broad smile gracing his face. “How is Captain Fallon faring?”

“As well as can be expected,” Dr. Angle responded flatly. “It took another heavy dose of laudanum to calm him.”

Godwin sighed. “How unfortunate.”

“Good day, Mr. Godwin,” Dr. Angle said as he stepped through the doorway.

Godwin sat down and began, “Gentlemen, we are headed for Kingston.”

“Kingston?” Dean replied. “Why Kingston?”

Why would Dean ask such a question? Of course they were going to Kingston, the nation’s headquarters in the Caribbean. If the Admiralty had issued them no further orders, Kingston should be their destination.

“We have attempted to execute our mission,” Godwin explained, “and we have failed. Regardless of the outcome in Santo Domingo, we are supposed to go to Kingston after the action.”

Castiel sympathized with the chagrin on Dean’s and Wesson’s faces. Once they reached Kingston, no doubt they would be court-martialed. At the very least, he and Dean would be.

“But we haven’t failed in Santo Domingo,” Dean insisted.

Godwin frowned. “Yes. We have.”

“We can still win.”

“How is that, Mr. Winchester?”

“The Spanish think they have completely routed us, do they not?” Godwin nodded. “So they would never expect us to launch another attack.”

“And we will not.”

“But we should. Overland. Tonight, so we have the cover of darkness. We take them by surprise, and we win control of the fort. With the fort come the ships.”

“Tonight! So soon?!”

“It would be the most surprising time for us to attack.”

Godwin bit his lip. “Hmm. It sounds risky.”

“The riskiest ventures often come with the best rewards.”

“What do you think, Mr. Wesson?”

Wesson glanced from the captain to his cousin and back again. “I think it sounds like a good plan. We will have to work hard to remain undetected, but if we can execute the motion, victory is all but assured.”

“And you, Mr. Milton?”

Castiel did not know what he thought. He did not share Dean and Wesson’s optimism about the idea, but he understood how a victory could potentially vindicate them in the event of a trial. But victory was _not_ all but assured. If they went ahead with Dean’s proposed campaign and it failed, it would work against them during a trial. The Admiralty would argue that they had overstepped their bounds by going beyond the orders they were given without the ability to consult Captain Fallon. It would not matter that Captain Fallon had been declared unfit for command if Dr. Angle testified against them.

No. Following through with Dean’s plan would only stall the inevitable. He was no more eager to face a court-martial than Dean or Wesson, but stalling would not help them. They should set sail for Kingston and face whatever was coming for them.

“I agree with you, Mr. Godwin,” Castiel decided. “The plan is too risky.” Since he was the second lieutenant, his opinion would have more weight than Dean and Wesson’s.

“Cas, you can’t be serious?!” Dean spluttered. Wesson and Godwin both appeared startled that Dean had addressed Castiel so familiarly.

“I am, D—Mr. Winchester.” Perhaps it would not do to call the third lieutenant Dean with the other officers present.

Dean looked as if he’d been stung. Was it because Castiel had disagreed with him? But no, it had seemed like a more emotional response. Castiel regretted not addressing him as Dean.

Godwin stood up. “We are headed to Kingston, then. Good day, gentlemen.”

Once Godwin had left the wardroom, Dean raged, “That was foolish counsel, _Mr. Milton_.”

Castiel flinched at the viciousness in Dean’s tone. “I gave my honest assessment.”

“Then your honest assessment is beyond stupid, _Mr. Milton_.”

Castiel’s throat felt thick. He stood up and announced, “I should be on watch now.” He held in threatening sobs as he ascended the companionway. His eyes watered, though, which made it hard to see. Dean had sounded as if he hated Castiel, and Castiel had believed an attachment had been forming between them, especially after last night. This was akin to what had happened with that midshipman during his first assignment, only worse, because he had supposed the attachment went somewhere past friendship.

He had been right. He should never have opened himself to Winchester.

He wiped his eyes before stepping on deck. He spotted Milligan and called, “Good morning, Mr. Milligan!”

“Good morning, sir!” Milligan answered. He smiled with no trace of nervousness or fear, the first time Castiel had seen him do so. With Fallon no longer a constant presence, Milligan seemed more relaxed. That was a consolation, at least.

During his watch, Castiel further deliberated over Winchester’s proposal. The more he thought about it, the more Castiel felt as if fleeing to Kingston was too timid of an approach. Perhaps a surprise attack on the fort might be disastrous, but deploying yesterday’s tactics had been risky, yet they had successfully extricated themselves from a precarious situation. Attempting to take the fort would do more than stall the inevitable trial; it could translate into a key victory for the nation.

When his watch was over, he decided he would tell Winchester that he had changed his mind. He paused outside the wardroom when he heard Wesson utter his name.

“If only Mr. Milton had agreed with us,” Wesson said, “then we wouldn’t be running back to Kingston with nothing to show for ourselves. When we’re court-martialed, we’re certain to hang without that.”

“Cas merely advised what he thought was best,” Winchester muttered, to Castiel’s astonishment. Why defend him to Wesson after castigating him earlier?

“What is this, anyway? ‘Cas’?! Since when are you on such intimate terms with him?”

“Um. Since yesterday.”

“Why, when he opposes us at every turn?”

“Are you serious, Sammy? What about the night when—when Fallon fell? He took a gamble when he offered his support. He didn’t know how we would react.”

“I still don’t understand.”

Castiel chose to finally step into the wardroom. Two sets of eyes swerved to him. “Hello. Mr. Winchester, Mr. Wesson.”

“Um. Hello,” Winchester murmured.

“Good day, Mr. Milton,” Wesson said.

“Mr. Wesson, do you mind if I speak with Mr. Winchester alone for a minute?”

Wesson stood up. “I should be on watch anyway. I will see you later, Dean.”

“Sure.”

“What did you want to talk about?” Winchester asked once Wesson had left the room. He gestured toward a chair. “Why don’t you sit down?”

Castiel did not want to sit down. He felt almost as if he would lose what little composure he had, and looming above Winchester gave him the strength he needed to speak. “I have come to apologize.”

“Apologize? For what?”

Castiel could not meet Winchester’s eyes. “I was wrong earlier, when I spoke against your plan. I think we should try it.”

Winchester stared at him in disbelief. “You think so?”

“Yes, Mr. Winchester.”

Winchester frowned. “‘Mr. Winchester,’ huh?” He sprang to his feet. “So yesterday means nothing to you.”

“I did not say that.”

“Then why the change in attitude?” Castiel’s eyes roamed over Winchester’s face, still avoiding his hazel-green orbs. As if Winchester didn’t know the answer to that question. Winchester had tricked Castiel into thinking he cared. He had probably told Wesson about the upside down pentagram on Castiel’s chest, laughing about it with his cousin. Castiel should have known no one could ever like him, especially a man as brash as Winchester. During this morning’s meeting, Winchester’s acid tone had made his true feelings clear. He disdained Castiel, just as he had the day Castiel had boarded the ship.

Oh, yes, Winchester knew the answer. Castiel would not make a laughing stock of himself by saying anything.

Winchester moved closer to him, and Castiel took two steps back. “Cas? Why won’t you look at me?” Castiel’s traitorous eyes grew wet. “What’s wrong?” Winchester crowded in closer, and Castiel could feel Winchester’s breath on his cheeks.

Castiel finally met Winchester’s eyes. “Don’t pretend as if you do not know.”

“What?”

Castiel crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at Winchester.

“I don’t understand.” Winchester did look clueless, but it was an act, no doubt. “Listen, Cas, I really like you, and I hate seeing you look so . . . like that. Talk to me.”

“Why would it matter?”

“Why would it matter?!” Winchester sputtered. “Because . . . because it just does.” He leaned in to Castiel and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. When he drew back, he asked, “Was that all right?”

Despite his suspicions, Castiel believed it then. Dean _did_ care for him, though why, Castiel didn’t understand. Even though their lips had barely brushed, he had felt Dean’s emotion in the kiss. A small smile formed on Castiel’s lips. “I told you last night. It is perfectly all right.”

“Good.” Dean pecked him on the lips again then cradled Castiel’s head to his chest. He ran a soothing hand through Castiel’s hair and asked, “Please tell me what’s wrong, hmm?”

“Nothing,” Castiel sniffled. “I am fine now.”

“Are you sure?”

Castiel lifted his head, and Dean cupped his jaw. “Yes.”

“Good.”

They surged toward each other, Castiel gripping Dean’s shoulders as their lips clashed. Castiel surprised himself when his tongue prodded inside Dean’s mouth, licking every spot he could reach. Dean made a startled noise and moaned as Castiel continued his exploration. Dean’s tongue wrapped around his, shoving into his mouth, and Castiel whimpered. Too soon, Dean pulled away, and a protest reverberated up from Castiel’s throat. “We should probably inform Mr. Godwin of your new opinion.”

“Oh. Yes.”

They found Godwin on deck, conversing with Wesson. They ceased talking when Dean and Castiel approached. “Cas has something he wants to say,” Dean told them.

Castiel argued for Dean’s plan, elaborating all the virtues behind it. Even Dean and Wesson looked impressed at all the points he made, and by the end, Godwin was nodding in agreement.

“We need to plot out this attack,” Godwin said. “I’ll fetch the maps and meet you in the wardroom.”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel, Dean, and Wesson replied.

They waited in the wardroom for a long time, minutes ticking by slowly as Godwin failed to appear.

“What’s taking him so damn long?” Dean grumbled.

“I shall go see. Perhaps he needs help carrying the maps,” Castiel offered. Castiel directed his footsteps toward the captain’s cabin, where the maps were located. He stopped just outside the cabin’s open door when he heard Fallon railing at whom he presumed must be Godwin.

“Take it from me, Mr. Godwin,” Fallon seethed. “Mr. Winchester is an oppositional bastard. You’ve seen how the other lieutenants follow him around like puppies. Even Mr. Milton, from whom I expected better. Trust me. He’ll try to overthrow you, too.”

Castiel hoped Godwin did not believe such nonsense. Deciding now was a good time to interrupt, he strolled into the cabin and surveyed the other two men. Godwin gaped at Fallon. Fallon was tied to a chair to keep him from wandering around, and for a second, Castiel felt sorry for him. Then he remembered the tyranny of Fallon, so reminiscent of the tyranny of Father.

“Mr. Godwin, do you require assistance with the maps?” Castiel asked.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Milton, that would be very helpful. Thank you.”

Godwin and Castiel gathered the maps. As they left, Castiel observed Godwin and Fallon exchange a meaningful look. Curious, but nothing to worry about, surely?

In the wardroom, they deposited the maps onto the table, and everyone began sorting through them and spreading out those that were relevant. Dean flattened out the map of Santo Domingo and placed it at the center.

“Here,” Dean murmured as he pointed at the bay. “This is what we should do.” He swept his finger over a section of the bay. “We could sail in through here. This part—” Dean tapped a finger on a strip of land. “—would be a perfect place to land. In the dark, no one would see us. Their lookouts probably wouldn’t be vigilant since the Spanish think they have decisively defeated us. We come around back—” Dean traced a finger to another location. “—and take the fort, which bottles up the ships in the bay.”

Silence reigned as Godwin examined the map and deliberated over Dean’s words. “It appears to be a fine plan, Mr. Winchester.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He turned to Castiel and Wesson. “And you support this proposition?”

“I do, sir,” Wesson replied.

“Yes, sir,” Castiel said.

“Then you should get started right away. We will see daylight in only a few hours. Gather the men and supplies you need.”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel responded. Dean and Wesson echoed him.


	9. The Second Campaign

Crew members rowed the boats toward the island. Along with their best men, Castiel and the other lieutenants had brought along Milligan, Crowley, Rhodes, and Fitzgerald. Everyone was armed with a gun at the very least; some also had a sword or bayonet. They towed along barrels of gunpowder, rope, fuses, and other supplies. When they landed at Santo Domingo, most of the men clambered out of the boats, though a few remained behind to keep watch over their only form of transportation back to the _Renown_. Yellow and orange rays peeked out from the horizon, gradually brightening.

“Damn. It’s almost daylight already,” Dean observed. “It might ruin our element of surprise.”

“I think we shall be all right if we are careful,” Castiel opined.

“Let us hope so.”

The men behind them stopped as the three lieutenants settled behind an outcropping. Wesson pulled out the telescope and extended the tube. He peered through the lens, surveying their surroundings. He settled his gaze on the tower, watching the area for a few minutes. When he removed the telescope from his eye, he concluded, “We need not fear detection, I believe.” He held out the telescope to Castiel. “Would you care to have a look?” Castiel accepted the telescope and directed his attention to the top of the tower.

“Why does he get to see things next, Sammy?” Dean complained.

“Do not fret,” Castiel interjected. “You will have your turn, Dean.” He briefly removed the telescope from his eye and glanced at Dean. “Mr. Wesson was right to offer me the telescope first. I am the senior officer.” Castiel meant the remark to be teasing, and he hoped Dean understood his tone. Sometimes his delivery could be awkward.

Wesson’s eyebrows climbed into his hair, and Dean seemed confused for a moment. When Dean finally realized Castiel had attempted banter, he laughed. The men behind them looked puzzled, which made Castiel smile. He liked it, having this private moment with Dean and his cousin.

Castiel placed his eye back to the telescope and studied the figures atop the tower. The guard was amorously engaged with a woman, their mouths fused in a filthy kiss. He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her bosom, and she drew back only to bite his collarbone.

Castiel imagined Dean biting his collarbone . . .

Heat rushed to his face. Now was not the time or place for daydreaming. Castiel proffered the telescope to Dean and said, “You may have your turn now.”

Dean snatched the telescope from Castiel and eagerly looked up. “Wow.” The hand with the telescope dipped down, and Dean’s mouth hung open. He lifted the telescope back to his eye and stared for what seemed an inordinately long time, guffawing all the while.

“That is enough, Dean,” Castiel chided as he grabbed the telescope and stowed it away. “We have seen what we need to.”

“Aw, Cas, it was just starting to get fun!”

Wesson rolled his eyes. “Mr. Milton is right, Dean. They are clearly not expecting us, which is all we need to know.”

“You two are so damn serious.”

“This mission _is_ serious, Dean,” Wesson chastised.

A cannon blast fired from far away, and everyone jumped. When they turned around, they could make out the _Renown_ in the distance, a wisp of smoke flying in front of the bow.

“So much for the element of surprise,” Dean muttered. “What the hell is Mr. Godwin thinking?!”

Castiel redeployed the telescope. Through it, he saw the guard ringing the alarm bell. The deafening noise of Spanish soldiers rapidly approached them.

They had no choice but to strike now. “ _Renown_ s!” Castiel bellowed. “Charge!” The men retrieved their guns, aiming them at the Spanish. All around, bullets whizzed in the air. Castiel carved his own niche into the bedlam surrounding him, anticipating the shots meant for him and ducking, shooting the belligerents firing at him, swinging his sword to parry a thrust aimed for him. His instincts had always served him well in battle, and he had never been more grateful for that than he was now, fighting in the midst of this melee. He noted Dean and Wesson nearby and took out threats toward them as well.

“Dean!” Wesson shouted, his voice barely audible above the fray. “How did the guard get up there?” Castiel glanced up to see what Wesson was talking about. There, on top of the fort, stood the man whom they had seen earlier on the tower. Along with a few other soldiers, the guard was shooting down at the British below. Someone flung their sword at Castiel’s neck, and Castiel knocked the weapon out of the man’s hand with his sword while keeping his eyes trained on the fort’s roof.

It would be impossible for the guard to move from the tower to the fort. Unless a secret passage existed somewhere.

Apparently Dean had the same thought, for he gripped Wesson’s arm and yelled, “Come on!” He also enlisted Milligan, Crowley, and Rhodes. They each grabbed a barrel of gunpowder and dashed through the crowd around them.

Dean’s eyes met Castiel’s, and Castiel exhorted, “Be quick about it, Dean!”

“Yes, sir,” Dean answered, awing Castiel with the respect he put into those two words.

While Dean, Wesson, and the three other men searched for the underground passage, Castiel alone would have to lead the crew against the enemy, and they were vastly outstripped. “Please hurry, Dean,” he murmured to himself.

He surveyed the area around him and realized they had somehow managed to fight their way to the fort. But the _Renown_ ’s men were still trapped by the Spanish, who spilled out of the fort and circled around them.

“Sir, the only way in is up,” Fitzgerald told Castiel as he attached a grappling hook to a rope and tossed it up toward a window. The grappling hook caught at the parapet, holding firm.

“Mr. Fitzgerald, no,” Castiel hissed. Fitzgerald ignored him, or perhaps he hadn’t heard Castiel over the action around them. He climbed the rope, only to have a Spaniard by the window shove him to the ground once he reached the top. Castiel had known Fitzgerald’s proposition would yield no results; too many Spanish still lurked inside the fort, shooting down at them. When Fitzgerald fell, an enemy soldier held his blade to Fitzgerald’s neck, and Castiel swatted it away with his own sword. Another man attempted to stab Castiel from behind, but Castiel sensed his presence before he could execute his motion. Castiel spun around, sword clicking against that of the man. Several other enemies gathered around him. He knocked their blades away, but for each man he defeated, several others took their place, and eventually he was backed up against the side of the fort.

One Spaniard, uniform more dapper than that of his other cohorts, approached Castiel. “You must surrender, Inglés,” he urged, sheathing his sword and resting his hand on the pommel. Castiel wiped the sweat from his forehead and shook his head. Why were Dean and the others taking so long? Surely they should have infiltrated the fort by now? Castiel would not give up, not yet. If Dean had discovered the secret passage, they could still win.

But what if Dean had failed? He and the others might have been captured, or worse, killed.

No. Castiel refused to contemplate it. He hadn’t connected with Dean only to lose him now.

He couldn’t surrender. He wouldn’t surrender. He didn’t want to become a prisoner of war or be responsible for allowing the _Renown_ ’s men to be captured. Maybe this island campaign had not been such a great idea after all. Why had he changed his mind? Why had he convinced Mr. Godwin to carry out Dean’s plan?

Again, the Spaniard urged, “Surrender.” Castiel placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, contemplating his options. He didn’t want to surrender, but the more time passed, the more unlikely it seemed that Dean and the others had succeeded. His grip tightened around the hilt, and he rubbed a thumb along the surface, deliberating.

“You are being foolish, Inglés,” the Spaniard said. “If you do not surrender—”

An explosion from within the fort disrupted the man’s speech. Dean, Wesson, Milligan, Crowley, and Rhodes raced outside, triumphant smiles on the faces of everyone but Crowley, who looked sullen as always.

“The . . . fort . . . is . . . ours!” Dean panted. The _Renown_ ’s crew cheered.

Castiel smirked at the Spanish leader. “I believe it is you who should surrender.”

The Spaniard looked dejected as he proffered the sword hilt-first to Castiel. Rhodes and Fitzgerald took charge of corralling the remaining Spanish while the lieutenants ascended to the roof. They spotted three Spanish ships in the bay.

“Dammit. We might as well have not taken the fort if we lose the ships,” Dean lamented.

Wesson’s eyes skimmed the cannons assembled on the roof. “Hot shot, Dean. We should fire hot shot at them.”

Dean grinned. “That is brilliant, Sammy.”

Wesson supervised a few men as they heated the shot. Crowley and those who usually handled the ship’s cannons joined Castiel, Dean, and Wesson on the roof once they were ready to fire at the Spanish vessels.

“Can I go first?” Dean asked.

Castiel gestured at the cannon in front of them. “You may.”

“Run her out,” Dean ordered. “And . . . fire!”

“Mr. Wesson?”

Wesson looked through the telescope. “It appears to have landed twenty yards short, sir.”

“Most unsatisfactory,” Castiel mumbled.

“Sir, the shot won’t go in this one,” Rhodes called from the cannon to their right. “It’s too big!” He jogged toward the next cannon, which seemed to be overheating. “And I don’t like the look of this one!”

Castiel strolled toward the latter cannon and examined it, frowning. When he realized the problem, he shouted, “Run! Everyone get away from this one!” Most of the men followed his command, but two were still attempting to aright the cannon. “I said run! Leave it! It’s going to blow!” Castiel grabbed their arms and dragged them away. The cannon exploded behind them.

“Oh,” Wesson commented. “Yes, the coefficient of expansion. That is what transpires when metal overheats.” Ever the intellectual, Mr. Wesson.

“No matter. All we need to know is that it’s bloody dangerous,” Dean teased. Castiel smiled and attempted to hold in his laughter, but he could not when Dean started chuckling.

“It’s not _that_ amusing,” Wesson huffed.

“Let us try for another hit,” Castiel suggested, biting his lip to stifle any stray giggles. He strode toward the fourth cannon and yelled, “Run her out! Now fire!” After the shot flew, Castiel inquired, “What do you see, Mr. Wesson?”

“A hit!” Wesson exclaimed. “A palpable hit!” He passed the telescope to Castiel, who spotted an emerging flame on one of the three ships.

They fired shot after shot, Dean and Castiel taking turns giving the orders. Once two of the ships had been destroyed, the third one hoisted up the white flag of truce.

“We did it!” Wesson marveled. “We won!”

They met with Mr. Godwin, who had had himself rowed ashore once their victory had been assured. While they waited for the remaining Spanish ship to arrive, Godwin congratulated Castiel for leading a triumphant campaign.

“Actually,” Castiel said, “the credit should go to Dean. Without him, we would have faced certain loss.”

Godwin looked shocked when Castiel used Dean’s Christian name, but he quickly trained his countenance back into neutrality. His eyebrow remained raised, however. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir. He located the secret passage utilized by the Spanish, which allowed us to take the fort from inside.”

“Oh.” He turned to Dean. “You are to be commended, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean blushed. He indicated Milligan. “We would not have been able to broach the passage without Mr. Milligan, sir. He was the key that allowed us to enter.” Milligan stared down at the ground, flustered.

“How is that?”

“Well, sir. When we found a grate above the underground passage, Mr. Milligan was the only one who could fit through it. He scouted the area and informed us of when we should blow up the grate so Mr. Rhodes, Mr. Crowley, Sam, and myself could enter the tunnel.”

“It was nothing, sir,” Milligan mumbled.

“No, it was definitely not nothing. You saved the whole thing,” Dean insisted.

“Congratulations, Mr. Milligan,” Godwin said. “We are all very grateful to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Milligan said quietly.

“We heard you firing shots on the _Renown_ , sir,” Dean said. “What happened?”

“Just a bunch of slaves. Called themselves the Free Army or something like that. They stole one of our boats and held two of our men hostage. Couldn’t let them get away with that, of course.” Godwin laughed. “No use negotiating with riffraff of that sort, so we took care of them.”

“Took care of them? What do you mean, sir?”

“Let us just say we will not be seeing those blacks anytime soon.”

 _He means he killed them_. Dean appeared to be struggling to hold in his indignation. Castiel agreed, for killing the slaves (ex-slaves?) seemed unnecessary. However, communicating such thoughts to Mr. Godwin would be insubordinate. Castiel eyed Dean, hoping he would remain silent about the matter. He must have comprehended Castiel’s intent, for his countenance gradually calmed.

A boat landed on the shore, and a Spanish man and woman stepped out of it. The man offered his hand to Godwin and announced, “Colonel Raphael Arquero of the Royal Engineers of His Most Catholic Majesty Carlos IV.”

Godwin accepted the handshake. “Captain Uriel Godwin of His Majesty’s ship the _Renown_.”

“I wish to offer you our unconditional surrender. With one stipulation.”

“What is that?”

“You provide us safe passage.”

“You do realize you will be prisoners of war?”

“Yes, Mr. Godwin. But I recognize defeat when I see it. The island is yours.”

“Very good, Mr. Arquero. We shall accept your terms.”

“Thank you, Mr. Godwin.”

Godwin looked to the marines. “Mr. Campbell,” he called.

Campbell came forward. “Sir?”

“You and your men shall escort Mr. Arquero, his wife, and the other surviving Spanish onto the _Renown_. Lock them up, but ensure they are comfortable.”

“Yes, sir.”

Once the marines and the Spanish had departed, Godwin turned back to the lieutenants. “Before we leave this island, we must blow up the fort. Someone needs to lay the charges.”

For a few minutes, no one said anything. Eventually, Dean declared, “I will do it.”

Godwin looked entirely too pleased with himself, and suddenly Castiel knew the motive behind Godwin’s order. He _had_ believed Fallon’s ramblings. He genuinely thought Dean would challenge his captaincy. With his impetuous nature, Dean did nothing to dispel such notions.

Godwin wanted to send Dean to his death, but Castiel would not allow it.

“I should do it,” Castiel argued. “I am the second lieutenant.”

“Mr. Winchester volunteered first,” Godwin replies. “He shall have the task.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Wesson interjected, “why must we blow up the fort? What do we gain?”

“Those are our orders, Mr. Wesson.” Were they? Only the captain had access to them, so Castiel could not be certain, yet he believed Godwin was making an excuse. “I will see you on board, gentlemen.”

Dean gathered the necessary supplies and headed toward the fort. Godwin boarded one of the rowboats, no doubt expecting Wesson and Castiel to follow him on another one. Once Godwin was out of sight, Wesson began rushing toward the fort.

“What are you doing, Mr. Wesson?” Castiel questioned.

“I am not letting Dean blow up the fort alone. I don’t give a damn what Mr. Godwin says.”

“You would disobey the captain?”

“If he gives foolish orders, yes.”

“That is treasonous, Mr. Wesson.”

Wesson rolled his eyes. “I know you think so. Our place is to obey, though you did not follow your own counsel with regard to Captain Fallon.”

“Captain Fallon was not behaving like a proper captain.”

“And neither is Mr. Godwin. You go on ahead to the ship. I hope Dean and I will meet you there.” He resumed his progress toward the fort, and after a few minutes, Castiel caught up with him.

“Now, what is it _you_ are doing, Mr. Milton?” Wesson asked.

“Coming with you.”

Wesson grinned. “Then let us hurry, Mr. Milton.”

“Yes.”

They ran toward the fort as fast as they could. Inside, they found Dean laying the charges. He glanced up at their approach. “Sammy? Cas? What the hell are you doing here?”

“We came to help,” Wesson explained.

“This is a task for only one man,” Dean pointed out.

“We thought you could use the company,” Castiel chimed in.

“Are you two insane?”

“Quite possibly,” Wesson acknowledged. “But we’re here now, so let us help you.”

“All right,” Dean sighed. Castiel and Wesson laid a few charges. The three lieutenants lit them together then hastened out of the fort, which exploded seconds after they had exited the building. They sprinted until they reached the edge of a cliff.

“She’s sailing away!” Wesson cried. He spoke true, for indeed the _Renown_ receded ever farther away from the island.

“Why would he do that?” Dean asked.

 _Because he did not expect you to survive_ , Castiel did not say. If he told Dean his suspicions about Godwin, Dean might actually contemplate working against the acting captain. One mutiny looked bad enough.

Castiel wondered if Godwin had yet realized that he and Wesson were not on board.

Dean flashed a mischievous grin at Wesson. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Wesson returned the smile. “I believe I am.” He and Dean stripped off their coats and laid their swords on the ground.

“What are you doing?” Castiel inquired.

Dean’s grin brightened. “We’re going to jump.”

Castiel examined the long drop to the ocean. “Now _that_ is insane.”

“Come on, Cas. We’re not leaving you here.”

“But I cannot swim,” Castiel objected, alarm tinging his voice.

“Sam and I will carry you. That is correct, Sam, is it not?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“No, this is not wise—” Castiel babbled as each cousin enclosed a hand around his wrist, Wesson on his left, Dean on his right. They leapt off of the cliff, hauling Castiel with them. Castiel screamed; then they slammed into the water. Castiel struggled to stay afloat, but Dean and Wesson proved surprisingly adept at keeping him upright.

It took forever, but finally they arrived at the _Renown_. Mr. Rhodes and Mr. Fitzgerald assisted them in climbing aboard. Water dripped from their clothes onto the deck.

“See, Cas?” Dean said. “We got you.”

“Indeed we do, Cas,” Wesson echoed. Castiel’s eyes widened. Why would Wesson adopt Dean’s nickname for him? Wesson patted Castiel on the back and said, “I think you have more than earned my friendship. Who would do that for someone but a friend?” Castiel continued to stare at him without blinking. Wesson appeared unnerved. “We do not have to be friends if you do not wish it. I just thought . . . ” He sounded so uncertain, and he shouldn’t be. This was what Castiel had always wanted, a friend on board. While his relationship with Wesson might differ from the burgeoning one with Dean, they could be close friends, too.

“I should be honored to have you as my friend, Mr. Wesson.”

“Uh. You can call me Sam. If you want. You don’t have to . . . ”

“Or Sammy,” Dean put in.

Sam swatted Dean on the shoulder. “No. Only Dean gets to call me that.”

“I shall address you as Sam,” Castiel declared.

“That would be wonderful,” Sam said.

Godwin stalked toward them, clearly not pleased. Dean took one step toward him, but Castiel stopped him with a hand to the shoulder. “Let me speak with him,” Castiel urged. “You and Sam should go.”

“All right.” Dean and Sam descended below deck. Castiel would probably see them in the wardroom after he talked to Mr. Godwin.

“Sir,” Castiel addressed Godwin, “I am sorry that Sam and I disobeyed your orders.”

“Oh, Mr. Wesson is ‘Sam,’ now, is he?” Castiel flinched at Godwin’s barely contained envy. “You three are so full of yourselves, and each other. No doubt you laugh at me behind my back and think me a fool.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes in confusion. “No, sir. We do not think that at all.”

“Do you not?” Godwin replied flippantly. “Then tell me. Why did you and Mr. Wesson return to assist Mr. Winchester?”

Castiel stared down at the deck. “We thought he might require help.”

“Did you not trust the judgment of your captain? What would have happened if the _Renown_ had lost all three of its lieutenants in the operation?”

Castiel glanced up. “It is not that we did not trust you.—”

“But it is, Mr. Milton. What other reason could you have for disobeying your captain?” Castiel remained silent, unable to think of a satisfactory answer. “Do you see? Your and Mr. Wesson’s actions were reckless. Not to mention traitorous.”

“I am sorry, sir.”

“But you are not, are you?” Godwin retorted. “Besides, you have not answered me. If we had lost all three lieutenants, what then?”

Castiel willed himself to look into Mr. Godwin’s eyes. “May I ask you something perfectly frank, captain?”

“You may, Mr. Milton.”

“Did you expect Dean to survive his mission?”

Godwin’s face contorted in fury. “What are you implying, Mr. Milton?” Castiel blushed. “I do not send men to their deaths!” Godwin shouted.

“Of course not, sir,” Castiel stammered. “I apologize. That was an inappropriate question.”

“Then why ask it?”

“We had to swim back to the ship, sir. A boat had not been sent for us—or Dean, rather.”

“I would have sent one in due time. If he—if you all had waited, as would have been proper.”

“Yes, sir.” Castiel clenched his jaw.

“Someone needs to take charge of the Spanish ship. Fetch Mr. Winchester. You and he shall be responsible for ensuring the ship safely reaches Kingston.”

“With respect, sir,” Castiel replied. “would it not be more beneficial to have all of your lieutenants aboard the _Renown_?”

“Do not question me again, Mr. Milton,” Godwin snapped. “Or I shall reveal your quarrelsome nature during the court-martial. You know what will happen to you in that case.”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel breathed, shocked that Godwin had just threatened to turn against him.

“We shall still have Mr. Wesson with us on the _Renown_. The midshipmen shall be useful as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, go find Mr. Winchester. I will send you to the Spanish ship presently, with a few members of the crew.”

“Aye aye, captain.”

When Godwin stalked away, Rhodes approached Castiel. “He’s lying, sir,” Rhodes said. “He never meant to send a boat for Mr. Winchester. I asked him if I should take a boat to get Mr. Winchester, and he said no.”

“I am sure the acting captain must mean well,” Castiel told Rhodes, for Rhodes would do himself no favors if he questioned Godwin’s intentions. “Do not be too hard on him.”

“Aye, sir,” Rhodes said, but he couldn’t prevent skepticism from leaking into his voice.


	10. Night Fight

“Dean,” Castiel called as he entered the wardroom. He noted that the cousins had donned new coats and changed into dry clothes.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean replied.

Sam glanced up from his book. “Hello, Cas. How was your talk with Mr. Godwin?”

Castiel sighed. “I do not believe it went so well. Dean. The captain has ordered us to take control of the _Marea_. Now.”

“Oh.” Dean frowned. “You and me both?”

“Yes.”

Dean lumbered to his feet. “All right. Bye, Sam.”

“Good-bye, Sam,” Castiel echoed.

“Bye, Dean, Cas,” Sam responded. “Good luck.”

After Castiel switched his uniform for a dry one, Mr. Fitzgerald and a few crew members accompanied him and Dean to the Spanish ship. Once they arrived, the lieutenants took charge of the vessel. Castiel was tired, and he wagered Dean was as well, so he gave Mr. Fitzgerald first watch. Castiel headed toward the captain’s cabin, determined to rest. He assumed Dean would take one of the other cabins, but Dean followed him instead.

Castiel sat on the cot, placed his bicorne beside himself, and peered up at Dean. “I would suggest you get some sleep while you can, Dean.” Dean didn’t move. “Would you like me to assign you a cabin?” Castiel felt his cheeks heat up. “I took this one because I am the senior officer.”

“Oh, I know that,” Dean said. He stared down at Castiel.

“Then what is it I can help you with?”

Dean closed the door and perched on the bed beside Castiel, laying his hat next to Castiel’s at the end of the bed. “We are alone together.”

“Yes, I am aware of that,” Castiel replied, confused.

“And we have a few hours until one of us takes the next watch.”

“Yes. What is your point?”

“We should take advantage of it.”

“Take advantage—?”

Dean grasped Castiel’s shoulders as he planted his lips on Castiel’s, tongue sliding against where they were firmly shut. Castiel’s mouth opened, just a sliver, but it was enough for Dean to insert his tongue inside. After exploring Castiel’s mouth, Dean’s tongue curled around Castiel’s, and a purr bubbled up from Castiel’s throat. Castiel slid his tongue along Dean’s, savoring the taste. “Oh,” Castiel breathed when they finally parted. “Dean.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow, eyes uncertain and full of longing. He rubbed his neck and softly asked, “Will this be all right?’

Castiel knew what Dean meant. Sexual activity. “Yes.” It was more than all right; he craved more.

Dean flashed a wolfish smile. “Cas,” he growled. Castiel shivered. A chill, not unpleasant, coursed through his body. Dean pried off Castiel’s coat and tossed it on a chair. The shirt followed, and then Dean gently coaxed him into lying down, hands moving over Castiel’s arms and chest as he guided him. Hands roamed up and down Castiel’s torso, touching him everywhere, setting his skin on fire. Dean bent down, and his lips grazed the inverted pentagram scored into his chest, tracing the pattern. Castiel burned with an intense desire, something shocking and overwhelming and _wonderful_. The intimacy of Dean’s gesture . . . Castiel wanted _more_.

After his lips had traversed the pattern, Dean paused at Castiel’s navel, lapping at it with his tongue. Castiel arched up into the sensation, and he closed his eyes, allowing himself to savor the heat pooling in his belly. When it became too much, when Castiel knew he needed to reciprocate, to _touch_ Dean, his eyes fluttered open. It wasn’t fair, Dean still being fully clothed while Castiel was this exposed.

Castiel’s hands reached up, and he snatched off Dean’s coat. Dean helped by shrugging it off. He pulled the shirt over Dean’s head, throwing it on the floor next to the coat. Castiel’s eyes drank him in, and he took a moment to appreciate the sight before him. The skin covering well-defined muscles, a siren song calling out to him.

Definitely more beautiful than any Greek statue.

“Cas,” Dean said, “What did I tell you about staring?” But despite his words, Dean’s face relaxed into a fond expression. He preened, obviously enjoying Castiel’s attention.

“I prefer to touch anyway,” Castiel declared as he finally ran hands over Dean’s bare skin. He had been right; Dean’s skin was warm and vibrant. His hands lingered over Dean’s beating heart, absorbing the feeling of Dean’s life force flowing against him. Dean dipped down low once again, his tongue and lips brushing over Castiel’s left ear. Castiel sucked on the side of Dean’s neck, and he heard Dean’s breath hitch.

“Damn, Cas,” he groaned, and Castiel heard it in his voice: sensation consumed him just as much as it consumed Castiel.

Dean’s hands fumbled with Castiel’s trousers, and Castiel guided Dean as he pulled them down to his ankles. Dean yanked Castiel’s boots off then slid the pants off and hurled them onto the ground; then he removed Castiel’s underpants. Dean’s eyes roved over Castiel’s body, pausing to admire Castiel’s penis, his thighs.

“Dean,” Castiel teased. “You’re staring.”

Dean smiled. “You’re gorgeous, Cas.”

“What?” Castiel spluttered. Why would Dean say _he_ was gorgeous? Dean was the gorgeous one, with his fine dirty blonde hair, his pretty eyelashes, his freckles, his hazel-green eyes. Castiel’s body didn’t compare, especially with Father’s brand splashed across his chest.

“I said you’re gorgeous.” He studied Castiel for a minute then frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He leaned down and nipped on Castiel’s clavicle. Castiel gasped. _Yes more_. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.” Dean’s eyes met Castiel’s, searing into him. He rocked back onto his knees. “You didn’t.”

“Have you _seen_ my chest?” Castiel scoffed.

“So? That is nothing to be ashamed of.” He pressed a couple of fingers onto a point of the warped pentagram. “You are gorgeous.” He blushed.

Castiel didn’t respond to the comment. Instead, he grabbed Dean’s waistband and stripped him of his pants. Dean kicked off his boots, and soon Dean was naked before him. He examined Dean and remarked, “You are beautiful, Dean Winchester.”

“Of course I am.” But despite his bravado, Dean sounded a little hesitant. There was something boyish about his demeanor, which only added to his beauty. Castiel wanted to meld his body against Dean’s; his skin itched for it. He cupped Dean’s jaw with both hands and sucked on the lower lip, the top lip, before assaulting his mouth with a full-bodied kiss. Dean tasted earthy and salty and _divine_ , and Castiel needed more. He lured Dean downward, refusing to part their lips. Breathing could wait; he _needed_ this. Dean came willingly, and soon they were lying chest to chest, thigh to thigh—

Member to member.

Dean ground onto him, and Castiel drowned in exquisite sensation. At the moment, this was all there was; the outside world did not exist.

When Dean drew back, breaking the kiss to breathe, he admitted, “I have never done anything like this before.”

Castiel bucked up against Dean, and Dean moaned, burying his face in Castiel’s neck. “What?” Castiel muttered. “Have sex?”

Dean laughed, and Castiel felt it against his skin. “This is not sex, Cas. Not strictly speaking, anyway. That requires penetration.”

“Penetration—?” How could men have sex with penetration— _oh_. “I want to do that, Dean.”

“Can’t.” Castiel’s skin absorbed the word, and disappointment charged through him. He wanted to be as close to Dean as possible, to have Dean— _penetrate_ him. “We would need something to act as a lubricant to keep it from hurting.”

“Oh.”

“I _have_ had sex, but never with another man.”

“Then why would you do— _this_ —with me?”

“I told you. I like you. I keep dreaming about it and—” On his neck, Castiel felt Dean’s cheeks heat up.

“I have never had sexual intercourse of any kind.”

“What? Why not?”

“I have never . . . felt so inclined.” Maybe Dean would think there was something wrong with him now that he knew Castiel was a virgin.

“Then why would you want to . . . with me?”

Castiel grasped a swathe of Dean’s hair and turned his head to face him. “Because I like you, too.”

“That . . . I don’t know what to say.” Dean gathered his words for a minute. “I am honored you chose me, Cas.”

Castiel communicated his passion with another kiss, thrusting up against Dean all the while. A glow spread over him, and he grew so hard he did not think he could last much longer. _Yes Dean more I need more yes Dean Dean Dean._ The pace of their rutting grew ever more frantic, and Castiel closed his eyes again so he could revel in the sensation overpowering him, and—

The climax wrung through him, devouring him, and he wished he could feel this delirious, this ecstatic, forever. Dean’s name passed through his lips. A second later, Dean grunted “Cas” while his own orgasm ripped through him.

Dean collapsed next to Castiel on the cot, lying on his side so he would fit. Semen was splattered across Castiel’s chest and the bed sheets.

Dean nuzzled his face into Castiel’s shoulder and ran a rhythmic hand through Castiel’s hair. Castiel thought about what Father would say. He bit his lip to prevent himself from laughing. Reverend Zachariah Milton might have killed him. After torturing him for his wickedness, of course.

Had he been wicked? No, this bond with Dean could not be wicked. It felt too much like heaven.

“We should probably get dressed,” Castiel realized.

“Mmm. ’m comfortable,” Dean murmured.

“As am I. But what if Mr. Fitzgerald should come looking for me?”

“Why would he?”

“What if there is an emergency? You know what would happen if we were found like this.”

“Yes.” Dean bolted out of the bed, found a Spanish officer’s shirt, and used it to wipe up the semen. Castiel stood up a moment later, and they put their uniforms back on.

Dean paused in the middle of donning his coat. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” They were quiet for a minute, listening. Then they both heard it: the faint sounds of shots and yells.

“I think something is happening on the _Renown_ ,” Dean concluded. He dashed out of the cabin, Castiel following close behind. Both carried lanterns, yet even so, now that night had come, it was too dark to see the _Renown_ even though she was nearby. Nevertheless, they could hear the clamor, the constant shooting and the crash of swords. “What the hell is going on over there?” Dean wondered.

“I don’t know,” Castiel replied, though he guessed it must be something awful. “We need to board her.” He strode across the deck until he found Mr. Fitzgerald, and Dean trailed him. “Mr. Fitzgerald,” Castiel called when he found the boatswain’s mate.

Fitzgerald turned to face Castiel. “I was just about to fetch you, sir. There seems to be a commotion on the _Renown_.”

Castiel’s eyes met Dean’s, and he raised his eyebrows as if to say, _See?_ If they had dressed even a moment later, no doubt Fitzgerald would have discovered them in what appeared to be a compromising situation. Then they would have been punished for something other than mutiny.

“Gather the men, Mr. Fitzgerald,” Castiel commanded. “We are going to investigate what is occurring on the _Renown_.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

While Fitzgerald assembled the rest of the crew, Dean tapped his foot on deck, his whole being taut with barely restrained energy. “Do you think they’ve been attacked?” he asked.

“Possibly,” Castiel answered.

“By whom? And why wouldn’t they attack us?” Castiel merely shrugged.

Fitzgerald returned with the men, and everyone clambered onto the boat. Castiel and Dean helped the men row, eager to reach the _Renown_ as soon as possible. When they arrived at the _Renown_ , Castiel and Dean boarded first, both men moving quickly. While the other men stepped onto deck behind them, Castiel and Dean examined the scene.

Men shooting at each other, others engaged with their swords. A mixture of Spanish and British.

“They broke out of the brig,” Castiel marveled. “But how?”

“Who cares?” Dean retorted. “Let’s stop those bastards.” He gazed at the men. “What the hell are you waiting for? Go help your shipmates.” They gave Castiel a questioning look, and Dean looked apologetic. They were supposed to take orders from Castiel since he was the senior officer.

“Yes,” Castiel put in. “We should help them defeat the enemy.”

_He is lucky I am the only higher-ranked officer present_ , Castiel thought as he threw himself into the melee. He knew that Dean had not intentionally tried to usurp his authority, but if he had behaved that way with someone like Mr. Godwin, Dean would have been seen as presumptuous.

The Spanish man in front of Castiel shot at his head, and Castiel ducked. With his sword, Castiel tripped the other man before shooting him in the chest.

When Castiel straightened up, another man swung a sword at him. Castiel parried the strike, and they fought, each man blocking the other until Castiel stabbed the man in the heart. The man fell to the ground, and Castiel pried his bloody sword out of the body.

And again his sword met that of an enemy. Again, he emerged victorious. Castiel lost count of how many men he fought, trusting his instincts just as he had on the island, jumping out of the paths of bullets that barely missed him.

Castiel heard the cock of a gun and crouched. Bullets flew above him. He glanced at the upper deck and yelped at what he saw.

Colonel Raphael Arquero’s knife plunged into Sam’s chest.

Castiel aimed his gun at Arquero and pulled the trigger. Arquero clutched at his chest when the shot hit its target then crumpled to the ground. Sam looked confused, and Castiel wanted to go help him. But another Spanish soldier engaged Castiel in a duel, and he lost track of Sam.

After an interminable period of time, the Spanish second-in-command approached Castiel and offered his surrender. His soldiers had been losing the fight, and when he had stumbled upon Arquero’s body, he had decided the Spanish should give up. Castiel accepted the surrender and ordered Mr. Rhodes and Mr. Fitzgerald to take the remaining Spanish to the brig.

Dean stepped up to his side, and Castiel studied him. He panted with exhaustion, and his sword was just as bloody as Castiel’s. Blood splattered his face.

“Dean? Are you all right?” Castiel inquired, alarmed by Dean’s appearance.

Dean rubbed two fingers across his cheek, smearing the blood. “’s not mine,” he muttered.

“Thank God.” Castiel scanned the area but didn’t see Mr. Godwin anywhere. Or Sam, for that matter.

“Where’s the captain?” Dean asked.

“Which captain?” Castiel responded.

Dean eyed him as if he was dense. “The acting captain, of course.”

“Let’s check his cabin.” Not that he expected Mr. Godwin to be there, but it was a good starting point.

Dean followed him to Mr. Godwin’s cabin. When Castiel opened the door, he was stunned to find a bound and gagged Godwin. He and Dean rushed to the bed and untied Godwin.

“Are you all right, sir?” Dean asked.

“I’m fine,” Godwin spat.

“We’ve subdued the Spanish, sir,” Castiel informed him.

“So I assumed!” Godwin shoved past them.

Dean chuckled. “Can you believe that? They must have caught him napping.”

It was hard not to share Dean’s mirth, but Castiel bit back his laughter. “Perhaps we should see how Captain Fallon fared.” After all, the Spanish might have looked for Godwin in the captain’s cabin.

In the captain’s cabin, they discovered Fallon’s body lying on the floor. Dean whistled. “He died fighting. Good for him.”

“But who undid the ropes?” Castiel mused.

“I did,” a voice said. He and Dean spun around to face Crowley, who shrugged. “He deserved a chance to defend himself.” He glared at the two lieutenants.

Castiel nodded. “Quite right, Mr. Crowley.” Crowley appeared surprised by Castiel’s assessment before he proceeded to pass through the ship. Castiel and Dean fled the captain’s cabin and patrolled the deck, compiling a list of the dead. They did not find Sam, but they did stumble upon Adam Milligan, his light blue eyes staring glassily upward.

“Dammit!” Dean seethed. “He was just a boy, Cas. Eighteen. Just a boy.” His expression grew stony. “A lot of good Sam and I did him, huh? First Captain Fallon punished him for imaginary offenses, and now this.”

Castiel reached for Dean’s hand and stroked the palm with his thumb. “It is not your fault, Dean,” Castiel assured him. “You did look after him. You and Sam.

“We were not good enough, Cas,” Dean choked out. He scanned the deck and after a minute said, “Where is Sam, anyway?”

_Sam might be dead_ , Castiel didn’t want to tell him.

Dean jogged away, leaving Castiel to catalog the dead alone. Castiel sighed, and his eyes watered at the sheer number of them. He noticed Rhodes and Fitzgerald sewing body bags for the dead and shivered.

When he was finished, he spotted Sam and Dean sitting together on the upper deck. He sprinted toward the location, afraid for Sam. “Sam, are you all right?” he asked breathlessly, standing beside Dean.

Dean frowned. “What does he mean, Sammy? Did something happen to you?”

“I . . . am . . . fine,” Sam wheezed.

Dean’s voice contained a note of panic. “Sam? Sammy? You’re not fine, are you.” He tore open Sam’s coat (a clean one, so Sam must have just put it on). Underneath, Sam’s shirt was drenched in blood.

“Sammy?” Dean sniffled.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Sam gasped out. He coughed, and blood poured out of his mouth, dripping onto his shirt and coat.

“God, Sammy.”

“We should get him to sickbay,” Castiel pointed out. He moved to Sam’s feet and said, “Help me carry him, Dean.”

They trudged to sickbay and found somewhere to deposit Sam, who had fallen unconscious. Dr. Angle was attending to another patient, bandaging his legs. Castiel approached him.

“Sam—Mr. Wesson—is grievously injured, doctor,” Castiel explained.

“I will see him in a minute,” Dr. Angle muttered.

Castiel crowded into Dr. Angle’s space and shouted, “You will see him now!” Most of the men in here had sustained non-fatal injuries. Sam might not be so lucky, and the longer the doctor waited, the more likely it was that Sam would die.

Dr. Angle scowled, but he complied nevertheless.

“Well, doctor?” Dean ventured after Dr. Angle had examined him. “How—how is he?”

“It is too early to tell.”

“Not that again!” Dean looked like he wanted to punch Dr. Angle.

“It is a serious injury. Right now, I would say things could go either way.” Dean glowered at the doctor.

“Thank you, doctor,” Castiel said, hoping to mitigate the effect of Dean’s wrath. He clasped Dean’s shoulder and steered him out of sickbay.


	11. Onward to Kingston

After the dead had been commended to the deep, Godwin told Dean and Castiel to get some rest. Because of the _Renown_ ’s losses, he had decided to keep the two lieutenants on board and send two midshipmen to act as stewards over the _Marea_.

Castiel followed Dean into his cabin and shut the door behind them.

“What are you doing, Cas?” Dean asked, sounding irked. Castiel did not miss the undercurrent of weariness in his voice, though. “You heard Mr. Godwin. We should get some damn sleep.”

“How are you doing, Dean?” Castiel posited.

“How do you think?” Dean responded flippantly. “Get out.”

Castiel studied Dean’s countenance and noted the barely restrained tears glittering in his eyes. “I am here for you, Dean, when you need me.”

“I said, get the hell out!” Dean yelled, his voice catching in his throat. Dean bit his lip, looking as if it took all of his energy not to cry.

“Oh, Dean,” Castiel sighed. He approached Dean, who backed away until he smacked into the wall. He stared at Castiel with wide, haunted eyes. Castiel embraced Dean, resting his chin on the third lieutenant’s shoulder and stroking his hair with one hand and his back with the other. “Let it out, Dean,” he urged softly. “Let it out.”

Unable to hold it in any longer, Dean burst into a fit of sobs and buried his face in Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel patted his back, silence surrounding them with the exception of Dean’s weeping. When he felt Dean slumping against him, Castiel guided Dean to his cot, and they sank onto the bed. “I failed them both, Cas,” Dean lamented against Castiel’s shoulder, voice muffled.

Castiel drew back and gazed earnestly at Dean’s distraught face. “No, Dean. You did not fail anyone.”

“But I did. Adam Milligan is dead because I didn’t save him. And Sam . . . he could die, too.”

“You cannot save everyone, my friend.” Dean was putting too much of a burden on himself. He was not God; he could not be everywhere at once.

Dean pushed Castiel to the other side of the bed. “The hell I can’t!” he roared. Castiel flinched at the vehemence in his voice. “I should have tried harder!”

“Dean, you are being unfair to yourself.”

“They were my responsibility, Adam Milligan and Sam. And I failed.” Dean’s voice cracked as fresh tears streamed down his cheeks.

“Do not give up on Sam yet,” Castiel said. “He may yet recover.”

“Even if he does, that does not erase my failure.”

“You did not fail them, Dean. I believe they would agree with me.” He scooted back toward Dean, who glared at him.

“What the hell do you know?!” He pounded his fists against Castiel’s chest, an act of desperation.

If Dean needed to hurt him to express his grief, Castiel would endure it. Dean had loved Milligan very much, and Sam was like a brother to him. For Dean, losing Sam was akin to Castiel losing Rachel or Anna, and he did not know how he would react if either of them had been seriously injured. Better for him to express his emotions like this than turn on himself. “That’s it, Dean. Let it out.” Gradually, the strength behind the punches waned, and Dean broke into a fresh fit of sobs.

“Oh, God, Cas! I’m sorry!”

Castiel threaded a hand through Dean’s hair. “It’s all right,” he whispered.

“No, it’s not,” Dean whimpered. “None of it is your fault, Cas. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“Shhhhh.” Castiel kissed the top of Dean’s head. “It’s all right.”

Dean rested his head against Castiel’s chest, and his tears soaked Castiel’s jacket. Eventually, Dean’s body grew lax, and Castiel laid Dean’s sleeping form on the cot, covering him with the blanket. He remained sitting on the foot of the bed, leaning back so that his head rested against the wall.

“I will watch over you, Dean,” Castiel promised for the second time.

And Castiel did so until his eyes refused to remain open.

“And so there Dean is,” Sam narrated, “with cherry pie all over his face, and he’s acting as if he doesn’t know where the pie is. Like a ghost ate the pie or something.” He and Castiel laughed while Dean scowled at them.

“How old was Dean when this happened?” Castiel asked.

“Eight? Nine?” Dean grumbled.

Sam chuckled. “Fourteen, more like.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow at Dean. “You were fourteen, and you thought your mother would believe such a lie?”

“A boy can always hope, can’t he?” Dean countered.

The morning after the fight against the prisoners (Arquero’s wife claimed she had seduced a marine and stolen his keys, though no one could ascertain which marine it had been), Castiel and Dean had awoken in a tangle of limbs, crowded onto Dean’s cot. Castiel and Dean had sprung apart, afraid that a messenger might discover them together. But they soon learned that no one was tracking them, and if they were careful when they were together, they would not be caught. When they had overlapping breaks, they would curl up together on either Dean’s or Castiel’s cot as they rested. Though Dean did not say so, Castiel understood that his presence helped Dean sleep better. Castiel slept better, too, knowing that he was a comfort to Dean.

They did not tell Sam about the arrangement, of course, for they did not wish to scandalize him. He had regained consciousness yesterday, and he seemed to be recovering nicely, at least according to Dr. Angle. Sam’s appearance certainly confirmed that, his attitude vibrant, his cheeks flush with life.

“Will you remind me why Mrs. Winchester was making this pie?” Castiel inquired.

“My parents were going to test how it sold in their bakery,” Sam answered. “Aunt Mary needed the money.”

“My father had not sent us money in a few months,” Dean elaborated. “When he came home, he did not have the money, either, though he could never explain what had happened to it.”

“Perhaps he spent it on prostitutes and drink.” Dean gaped at Sam. “What? You think I don’t know about that? Sometimes I overheard Aunt Mary talking about it with Ma.”

Castiel met Dean’s eyes. He wondered if Sam knew about the physical abuse Dean and Mrs. Winchester had suffered, and he could tell Dean was having similar thoughts.

“Anyway,” Dean said. “Mama’s pies were better than your parents’ pies, Sam. And your parents’ pies were damn good.”

“It is true,” Sam conceded. “Aunt Mary’s pies always sold well at the bakery. But not _all_ of her pies were better than my parents’ pies.”

“You’re biased.”

“ _You’re_ biased.”

Castiel smiled to himself, enjoying the brotherly banter between the cousins. He prayed for Sam’s continued recovery.

Castiel jerked awake, feeling as if something was not quite right. After a second, something shook him, and he realized Dean was thrashing in his arms. With one glance, Castiel ascertained that Dean was still asleep, in the grip of a nightmare.

“Dean,” he said. Dean continued to squirm without waking up. “Dean,” Castiel said more loudly. Yet Dean still remained asleep. He needed to take another approach, but what? He tugged at Dean’s hair and placed his lips to Dean’s ear, tongue grazing the area as he cried, “Dean!”

Thankfully, that worked. Dean abruptly ceased moving and crawled to the other side of the cot. “What the hell, Cas?” he seethed.

Castiel retrieved the lantern from Dean’s desk, lit it, and placed it on the bed between himself and Dean. “Are you all right? I think you were having a bad dream.”

“Yes, Cas, I am well.” Dean squinted in the glow of the lantern. His lips trembled, and his eyes twitched, small signals that belied Dean’s statement.

“No, you are not,” Castiel replied. Dean scowled and opened his mouth as if to speak, but he closed it when Castiel held up a hand. “What were you dreaming about? Tell me.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “It was just a dream, Cas. It is not important.” Castiel stared at Dean, unconvinced by his argument. “Fine,” Dean eventually snapped, averting his gaze. He studied the floor. “Do you really want to know?” Castiel nodded. “I was dreaming about that night.”

“Which night?” _Oh._ Understanding hit Castiel as soon as he voiced his question.

“Which night do you think?” Dean responded sarcastically. “I was the only one present when Captain Fallon fell down the hatchway. And I—” Dean closed his eyes. “I cannot even remember what happened.” He opened his eyes, and tears shone in them. “All I remember is Captain Fallon’s body on the ground. Staring down the opening and seeing the blood pool around his head. Then Dr. Angle arriving and attending to him.”

“Is that what you were dreaming about?”

“Yes.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “If I tell you the rest, do you promise not to tell anyone? Especially Sammy.”

“I promise.”

Dean squeezed his hands together in his lap and licked his lips before he continued. “There are fragments, holes in my memory. The whole event was playing in sequential order, but the missing pieces made it confusing.

“I would—” Dean swallowed. “I saw myself holding out a hand toward Captain Fallon, but I do not know why. Sometimes I think I was trying to save him, but then sometimes I think . . . maybe I pushed him.” Dean’s voice cracked. Lost green eyes met Castiel’s, and Castiel’s heart stuttered. “What if I did push him, Cas? What kind of man does that make me? A murderer?”

“No,” Castiel answered. “He did not die from the fall.”

“But if I pushed him, then I must have meant for him to die. Which makes me as good as a murderer.”

“No, Dean.”

“No? It is the intent that matters, is it not?”

“You were probably trying to save him,” Castiel assured Dean even though he did not know if that was true. But whatever Dean had done, he was a good man. He put so much pressure on himself to save everyone, sometimes neglecting himself. If he had pushed Captain Fallon into the hold, he must have had a good reason. Yes, such an act would be reprehensible, but Dean was no villain.

“But what if I wasn’t?”

Castiel moved the lantern out of the way and threw his arms around Dean. He smoothed a hand through Dean’s hair and said, “Do not worry about it, Dean.”

“How can I not worry about it?”

Castiel pulled back and examined Dean’s weary countenance. How long had his incomplete memory haunted him? Ever since that night, Castiel would wager. He wished he could take that burden away from Dean.

“Look to the future,” Castiel urged. “Please. If you obsess over the matter, it will destroy you. And I—please do not let that happen.” _I cannot handle losing you_.

Dean gazed at Castiel with subdued awe. “Why are you so good to me, Cas?” He leaned into Castiel and smoothed a hand through Castiel’s hair. Castiel melted into the touch. They drew closer until their lips brushed. The kiss grew into something more passionate, Dean and Castiel opening their mouths wide and savoring the taste of each other. They broke contact when they needed air.

“Do you think you can go back to sleep?” Castiel asked.

“I can try,” Dean replied. He looked unsure. “If you will stay.”

“Of course.” He had been sleeping with Dean for the past few nights. Why wouldn’t he stay? Did Dean think that Castiel was repulsed by his confession? The thought hurt.

Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean, clasping his hands together over Dean’s stomach. Dean hooked one of his ankles behind Castiel’s. Castiel waited until Dean was asleep to close his eyes.

Sam’s recovery, though slow, remained steady. He could even walk for short stretches of time. Castiel smiled to see his progress. Despite the calamities that had befallen the _Renown_ , Castiel would still count this voyage as his favorite, for he had met Dean and Sam. They accepted him for who he was and made him feel as if he belonged.

“With Captain Fallon dead,” Dean posited, “do you think we will still face a court-martial when we reach Kingston tomorrow?”

“I would wager so,” Sam said. “Too many people heard Captain Fallon’s accusations for them to be dismissed. In particular, Mr. Crowley and Dr. Angle will be eager to testify against us.”

“Dammit,” Dean muttered.

Castiel almost reached for Dean’s hand then thought better of it. He and Dean had to keep the nature of their relationship to themselves. If the wrong party discovered the truth, they could be charged with buggery. That, in addition to the charge of mutiny . . . it would spell certain doom for both of them. Even though Dean was close to Sam, he was still unsure how Sam would feel about his cousin having an intimate relationship with another man. Neither Castiel nor Dean wanted to lose Sam’s friendship, so they held their secret close.

“I think we stand a good chance of acquittal,” Castiel inserted. He did not know whether he believed his own words, but he wanted to. “There is not much solid evidence against us.”

Dean snorted. “They don’t need solid evidence, Cas. It’s the damn navy. Do you know how many men have been hanged based on suspicion alone?”

“Dean is right,” Sam said. “Most court-martials end in a guilty verdict regardless of evidence, or lack thereof.”

“Yes. In the navy, gossip is proof enough.”

Castiel slapped a hand to his forehead. “I hope that shall not be the case for us.”

“The outcome will depend on whoever is on the tribunal,” Sam added. “There are a few captains who refuse to convict based on flimsy evidence.”

Castiel resolved to pray about the upcoming court-martial. He would plead for them to escape the noose. He did not wish to make Anna and Rachel destitute when he died. Even if he was convicted, he could find some other employment to help support his sisters as long as he didn’t hang.

A coughing fit overtook Sam. Castiel thought it would last briefly, but when the fit didn’t stop, Castiel grew concerned.

“Sammy!” Dean exclaimed. “Sammy, are you all right?”

Sam gave a short nod, but then he began coughing up blood.

Dean sprang to his feet and yelled, “Doctor!” He glanced around, and when he noticed Dr. Angle was not there, he rushed out of sickbay. He returned a moment later with Dr. Angle, who appeared stunned at this latest development.

“And he was doing so well, too,” Dr. Angle sighed.

“Will he be all right, doctor?” Dean asked.

“Yes, I should think so.” He waved a hand at Dean and Castiel. “Please leave us. I would like to attend to the patient alone.”

“Yes, doctor,” Castiel said as he departed the room with Dean. He followed Dean to his cabin and sat on the bed next to him. Dean’s eyes watered. Castiel cradled Dean’s hand in his and massaged the third lieutenant’s knuckles with a thumb. Neither of them said anything, and they remained suspended in this state for hours.


	12. The Court-Martial

When the _Renown_ docked in Kingston, the acting captain, three lieutenants, gunner, and doctor reported to the Admiralty, where they were due to testify in a trial. The _Renown_ ’s log books were reviewed by senior officials, and based on those records, Castiel and Dean were to be put on trial. Members of the Admiralty were suspicious of Uriel Godwin and Sam Wesson, but Captain Fallon’s records contained no proof of their complicity other than idle speculation. However, he had explicitly accused Dean of attempting to kill him and included snippets of dialogue that illustrated Castiel’s reputed disrespectful and insubordinate nature. Dean and Castiel were imprisoned in the Admiralty, and Godwin, Crowley, and Dr. Angle procured lodgings at a nearby inn. Sam’s condition continued to deteriorate, so he was kept in the Admiralty, though not in the jail, with a doctor periodically checking up on him. The Admiralty’s senior officials granted Dean and Castiel the right to visit Sam for a few minutes every day.

The tribunal would consist of three captains: Bobby Singer, Alastair Badham, and Dick Roman, all men who had distinguished themselves in service. Dean and Castiel were charged with mutiny, and Dean was also charged with attempted murder.

In their cell, Dean lounged on his cot while Castiel drew into himself, pulling his knees up to his chin. He clasped his arms around his legs, his interlaced fingers twitching nervously. From his bed, Castiel regarded Dean with disbelief. “Are you not afraid, Dean?” he asked.

Dean rolled his head to the side so he could face Castiel. “Of course I’m afraid,” he replied, “but being tense won’t exactly help matters, will it?”

The cell door swung open, and Dean sat up. A man stepped into the cell, and the guard locked it behind him. Castiel jumped in surprise. Captain Bobby Singer had come to visit them. This close, Castiel could see all the wrinkles in the man’s uniform. Tufts of thinning brown hair adorned his head. He ran a hand over his brown beard and groused, “What have you gotten yourself into this time, Dean?”

“It’s nice to see you, too, Bobby,” Dean huffed.

“You know Captain Singer?” Castiel marveled.

“Sam and I served as midshipmen under him.” That still did not explain why Dean would dare to address Captain Singer with such familiarity.

Singer noticed Castiel’s puzzled expression and chortled. “We don’t stand much on ceremony aboard my ship, son. Everyone calls me Bobby unless they crave ridicule.” He eyed Dean. “And I treat everyone else the same.”

“Bobby.” Dean gestured at Castiel. “This is Cas. Castiel Milton.”

“I know. Who else would you be sharing a cell with?” He turned to Castiel. “So. Cas, huh?” Castiel nodded warily. Singer approached him and extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Castiel accepted Singer’s hand. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Singer,” he professed when Singer retracted his hand.

Singer snorted. “When I said everyone calls me Bobby, I meant _everyone_. You included, Cas.”

Castiel swallowed as he felt his cheeks redden. “Yes, sir, Mr. Singer. Sorry. Bobby.” He studied his fingernails for a moment, afraid of facing Bobby’s derision.

Dean chuckled. “Cas is rather the proper sort, Bobby. Makes him hard to get to know, but it’s worth it.” Castiel glanced up, and Dean flashed him an affectionate smile.

Bobby plopped onto the cot next to Dean. “Dean, tell me how you got yourself into this position.”

Dean shrugged and rubbed his eyes. “There’s not much to tell. Captain Fallon was a madman.” Bobby glanced at Castiel, who confirmed Dean’s words with a curt nod.

Bobby’s countenance hardened. “You cannot go around slandering legendary captains, Dean. It will not endear you to the court.”

“But it’s true!” Dean spluttered.

“You know how highly Lucas Fallon is regarded. He helped secure many of our important victories.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” Dean muttered.

Bobby sighed. “I would suggest not using that argument in your defense. Captains Roman and Badham have served with Captain Fallon, and they will not favor you if you speak against him.”

“Then how am I to defend myself?”

“Tell the truth, boy. Explain your innocence.” Bobby raised an eyebrow. “You are innocent, aren’t you?”

“What? Of course I’m innocent, Bobby.” He eyed Castiel. “And so is Cas.” Castiel inwardly recoiled at the blatant lie. Perhaps Dean had not tried to kill Captain Fallon, but Castiel and Dean had conspired against him. They were guilty, so Castiel understood Dean’s desire to prove Fallon had been unstable. It was the only way they could justify their actions. But Bobby was right: politics would not permit the tribunal to take such accusations seriously. It was as Castiel had pointed out that fateful night: the navy would wish to preserve Fallon’s good name regardless of the cost.

But maybe they were technically innocent, Castiel realized. They had never actually carried out a mutiny.

“That is what you should tell the court.”

“Sir, if I may,” Castiel cut in. Bobby looked askance at him, as if being addressed as “sir” was a personal insult. “Bobby,” Castiel amended, and the captain’s face relaxed. “How are Dean and I supposed to maintain our innocence if we cannot dispute Captain Fallon’s words?”

“Give them context. Show how Captain Fallon’s perceptions were erroneous, though reasonable. Keep the madman nonsense out of it.” He patted Dean on the shoulder and stood up. “Good luck.” The guard unlocked the cell door, and Bobby departed. The guard followed him down the hallway.

“If Bobby won’t believe us, then no one will,” Dean lamented. He paled. “Dammit, Cas. I think we are going to lose.”

“We may,” Castiel acknowledged. “But we should not lose hope.”

Dean hiccupped. He attempted to repress incipient sobs and sniffed, “I’m scared, Cas.”

Castiel examined the area outside their cell, making sure it was empty before joining Dean on his bed. He placed his hands on Dean’s shoulders and turned him so they faced each other. “I will not say everything will be all right, Dean, because I do not know.” Castiel shuddered, momentarily overcome by his own fear. “But you are not alone.” He threw his arms around Dean and ran a soothing hand up and down his spine. Eventually, Dean raised a hand and threaded it through Castiel’s hair. The attention calmed both men. When Castiel heard the guard’s approaching footsteps, he sprang off of Dean’s bed and returned to his own.

The court began by establishing the chain of events that had occurred on the _Renown_ since Castiel had set foot on the ship. After that, they took a deeper look at the allegations against Dean and Castiel.

First, Captain Badham read excerpts from Captain Fallon’s logbook. Fallon described the night he had fallen down the hatchway. Captain Badham recited a passage in which Fallon detailed encountering Castiel, who had tried to block his way when he had wished to continue a trek through his ship. He had been searching for suspected mutineers, and Castiel’s actions had painted him as one. Fallon had been able to proceed only by using force to push past Castiel.

Then Captain Badham read a segment that seemed to damn Dean. After shoving his way past Castiel, Fallon had found Dean skulking near the cargo hold. When Dean had spotted Fallon, he had looked furious. Fallon had stepped forward to confront Dean, and Dean had grasped his shoulders, staring at him with fiery hatred. Then Dean’s hands had migrated to Fallon’s wrists, and Dean had flung him toward the cargo hold. Fallon had blacked out after that.

Castiel cast a sidelong glance at Dean. Dean’s hands squeezed his chair’s armrests, his knuckles white. He bit his lip so hard that Castiel was afraid he would draw blood. He sat rigidly in his seat, his expression stunned and horrified.

Next, Captain Roman read about the first altercation in Santo Domingo. Captain Fallon railed against the treachery of Dean and Castiel, who had somehow escaped the brig during the battle. He talked about how Dean had implemented his own ideas, with Castiel following along. Both men had disobeyed the captain’s orders. Dean had neglected to address Captain Fallon as “sir” and had spoken to him in a most disrespectful manner.

“Gentlemen, you will answer to these allegations in due time,” Captain Badham concluded. “But before we talk to you, we wish to speak to other witnesses. First, we would like to call Dr. Balthazar Angle to the stand.”

Dr. Angle stood up, swaying somewhat. Obviously, the man had been drinking. Perhaps his slovenly state would work in Dean and Castiel’s favor. After swearing Dr. Angle in, Captain Badham started asking the tribunal’s questions.

“Let us start with the most pressing matter,” Captain Badham proclaimed. “During the _Renown_ ’s first engagement in Santo Domingo, you declared Captain Fallon unfit for duty. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Dr. Angle answered. “Albeit reluctantly.”

“Why is that, Dr. Angle?” Bobby asked.

“The decision was not my own, but rather made in the heat of battle.”

“Made by whom?”

“Lieutenant Winchester.”

Dean bent over in his seat and covered his face with his hands. They had known that Dr. Angle would testify against them, but that did not make hearing his words any less painful. Neither Castiel nor Dean was eager to find himself on the end of a noose.

“Why did you do what he said? Surely as the doctor, you should have made an independent judgment.”

Bobby made an excellent point. Thank God they had at least one ally on the tribunal.

“He is an officer. He holds authority.”

Captains Badham and Roman donned expressions of agreement, but Bobby squinted with skepticism. “But not as much authority as the captain, or Lieutenant Godwin for that matter,” Bobby said. “Why did Mr. Godwin not make the decision? Did he support it?”

“With all due respect, sir, that is a question for Mr. Godwin. I cannot tell you what he was thinking.”

“If you did not agree with the decision, then why did you follow Mr. Winchester’s orders rather than those of your captain? Did he hold a gun to your head?” Dr. Angle did not answer, and after a few minutes, Bobby barked, “Speak, dammit!”

“Not as such, no.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“As I said, we were under the heat of battle. It was chaos. I had meant to rescind the declaration after the engagement, but by that time Mr. Winchester, along with his accomplice Mr. Milton, had obtained too much power aboard the ship.”

Dean peaked through his fingers at Dr. Angle, eyes inscrutable. “Liar,” he whispered so only Castiel could hear.

“Thank you, Dr. Angle,” Captain Roman cut in. “We should like to know more about the injuries the captain sustained when he fell down the hatchway.”

“He did not _fall_ ,” Dr. Angle hissed. “Mr. Winchester pushed him. Deliberately.” He glanced at Dean and Castiel then looked back at the judges. “With Mr. Milton’s assistance, he has attempted to cover up the truth, but he cannot fool me.”

“What makes you so certain, Dr. Angle?” Bobby inquired.

“Because Captain Fallon said so.”

“Is it possible that Captain Fallon’s faculties suffered from the injury he sustained?” Captains Badham and Roman scowled at Bobby, but he ignored them.

“Yes,” Dr. Angle acknowledged. “But I do not believe his memory would have suffered. If Captain Fallon was unable to command—and I do mean _if_ —then it was a result of the crime perpetrated by Dean Winchester. The lieutenant should pay for his sin.” Dr. Angle erupted into a coughing fit, no doubt exacerbated by the alcohol he had ingested.

“Thank you, Dr. Angle,” Captain Badham said. “That will be all.”

The court adjourned; it would convene again early tomorrow. A guard escorted Castiel and Dean to where Sam was staying and waited outside while they talked with him.

Sam smiled when they entered the room. His cheeks had regained their color, and when he spoke, he sounded strong and healthy. Castiel grinned back at him, happy that his friend was recuperating from the lapse in his recovery.

After they took their seats, Sam sat up in his bed and asked, “How goes the trial?”

“Terribly,” Dean replied.

“It has only just started. We should not lose hope yet,” Castiel said, trying to reassure himself as much as Dean.

“They have some damning evidence. Captain Fallon’s journal is full of vitriol against us, and Dr. Angle might as well have thrown a rope around our necks.”

“But Captain Fallon’s journal is flawed evidence,” Sam observed. “He was unstable, especially after the fall. Nothing he wrote can be trusted.”

Dean snorted. “Bobby might understand that, but Captains Badham and Roman would never.”

“Bobby? Bobby is on your tribunal?”

“Yes. Has he not visited you?”

“He has,” Sam acknowledged. “But he never mentioned being on your tribunal. Who did you say the other judges were?”

“Alastair Badham and Dick Roman.”

Sam whistled. “They have served frequently with Captain Fallon. The odds are not in your favor.”

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean responded sarcastically. “I didn’t know that.”

Sam ignored his tone. “What did Dr. Angle say?”

“Essentially, he accused me of usurping Fallon’s authority and Cas of helping me out.”

“He also believes Dean intentionally pushed Captain Fallon into the cargo hold,” Castiel put in. “In his medical opinion, Captain Fallon’s memory would have been intact even if he had lost other functions of his brain.”

Sam frowned. “That is not sound science.”

“I did not think it was.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean inserted, “as long as the judges believe it, it damns us.”

“Bobby will not believe that,” Sam declared.

“Perhaps not. But the other two will, and if they wish to convict us, they will overrule Bobby. If Bobby even believes in our innocence.”

“I think he does,” Castiel said.

“Does what?”

“Bobby. He is favorably inclined toward you. And to me, by extension.”

“What makes you say that?”

“When he visited you in our cell, I saw his fondness for you.”

“We still do not stand a chance.”

“Cas is right, Dean. Do not despair. You know how strong-willed Bobby is.”

Dean’s lips curled into a grin. “Yes, he is a stubborn old man.”

“I wouldn’t let him hear you calling him that.”

Dean laughed, the sound carefree and melodic. His eyes met Castiel’s, and he proffered a tender smile.

After their meager breakfast, Dean and Castiel filed into the courtroom. Castiel had urged Dean to sit up straight during the proceedings, as doing so would make a more favorable impression on the judges. Dean had griped at Castiel, complaining that he had not asked for advice, but Castiel noticed that Dean was now careful to maintain his posture. He bore himself with an assumed confidence and grace, and Castiel noted the difference between his demeanor yesterday and today. It accentuated his handsomeness, and Castiel could not prevent his eyes from appreciatively skimming over Dean’s figure. Dean briefly smirked at him before facing the front of the courtroom. Castiel knew that Dean was just as nervous as he was, but appearances were important. He hoped his body did not betray his own anxiety.

Captain Badham initiated today’s proceedings by summoning the ship’s gunner, Fergus Crowley, to the stand. After Crowley was sworn in, Captain Badham initiated the interview.

“Did you ever witness Lieutenants Winchester and Milton engaging in treasonous activity?” Captain Badham inquired.

“I did, sir.”

“Elaborate, please.”

“Mr. Winchester has always been, how shall we say? Disrespectful and insubordinate. He never failed to question the captain’s orders. He tried to interfere with the captain’s discipline of a midshipman. Captain Fallon punished him, of course, as was proper. Nothing too unusual, mind you. A thirty-six-hour watch.” Captains Badham and Roman looked satisfied, but Bobby frowned.

“How did Mr. Winchester try to interfere?” Bobby asked.

“He attempted to dissuade Captain Fallon from administering a dozen lashes to Mr. Milligan.”

“Is this Adam Milligan?” Captain Roman queried. “One of the casualties sustained by the _Renown_?

“Yes, sir.”

“Pity,” Bobby commented. “I would have liked to question him.” He paused and gave Crowley a sharp look. “Why was Mr. Milligan being disciplined?”

“For an egregious offense that, unfortunately, I cannot remember.”

“Mr. Winchester sustained another thirty-six hour watch, I recall. What was that for?” Captain Roman asked.

“Appalling disrespect,” Crowley spat. “Disregarding the captain’s role as the ultimate arbiter of what occurs on the ship. He professed his loyalty to the nation and the _Renown_ , but he omitted the captain from his list. Said this to the captain’s face, too. The night of Captain Fallon’s fall—”

Dean had balled his hands into tight fists. Castiel stared at them. The show of aggression, no matter how mild, would not reflect well on him.

“Pardon the interruption, Mr. Crowley,” Captain Badham cut in. “But I would like to know more about Mr. Milton before the night of the fall. How did he conduct himself?”

“Initially, he seemed promising enough. He was the model of propriety, ever obedient. But he must have had the seed of deviance in him, a seed that blossomed the more he talked to Dean Winchester. He wasn’t brazen enough to show his true nature until after the captain suffered his injury, but there was one telling incident. Funnily enough, it happened the same night as the captain’s fall.”

“What was this incident, Mr. Crowley?”

“Two of our common sailors engaged in a fight. Mr. Milton attempted to break up this harmless altercation. Captain Fallon belayed Mr. Milton’s order to cease, for he likes to see a little spirit amongst the men. Before he left, he glared at the captain in, might I say, a mutinous manner.”

“It was no ‘harmless altercation,’!” Castiel yelled impulsively. “One of the men was _killed_!”

“Silence!” Captain Roman commanded. “We will not tolerate such disruptions in the courtroom!”

Dean turned to Castiel with wide eyes, and Castiel crossed his arms over his chest, sulking. “I apologize, sirs,” Castiel uttered. He should have controlled himself better, stopped himself. Nothing Dean had done compared to that outburst. Castiel wouldn’t be surprised if he had damned them both. He bit his lip and refused to shed the tears forming in his eyes.

He had been too outraged to think rationally. Crowley had made the fight seem like a friendly spat. Castiel still vividly remembered all the blood, his horror when he realized that one of the sailors was dead.

Captains Badham and Roman returned their focus to Crowley, but Bobby gave Castiel a stern look before he followed the lead of his colleagues.

“Mr. Crowley,” Captain Roman posited, “what can you tell us about the night of Captain Fallon’s fall?”

“I went up on deck and found only the midshipman Milligan. Mr. Winchester should have been on watch, and since he was not there, I knew he must have been acting on ill intentions. I roused Captain Fallon from his cabin and informed him that I believed the lieutenants to be plotting a mutiny, for I had not seen them in any of their usual places. Not in their cabins or the wardroom. Captain Fallon and I searched for them. I did not encounter them, but, as you know, Captain Fallon stumbled upon both Mr. Milton and Mr. Winchester.

“I did not see it happen, but there is no doubt in my mind about it: Mr. Winchester shoved Captain Fallon into the cargo hold. I could tell just by the way he comported himself when Mr. Godwin informed us of what had occurred. He was pale, shaking, and his accomplice Mr. Milton whispered something to him. The second lieutenant looked nervous, as if worried about hiding his guilt.”

“Do you believe that Mr. Milton conspired with Mr. Winchester to injure the captain?”

“Yes, sir. I would go a step further and say they both meant to kill him.”

Castiel felt as if he would throw up. The longer the trial went on, the more likely it seemed that he and Dean would hang. He clasped his hands in his lap and tried to calm himself.

“Mr. Crowley,” Bobby interjected, “Captain Fallon wrote that Mr. Milton attempted to block his progress amidships. Why would he do that if he wished to aid Mr. Winchester in harming the captain?”

Crowley smirked. “You would have to ask Mr. Milton that, sir. He might have done it so he could protest his innocence during an occasion such as this. Or perhaps he wished to further antagonize the captain, rendering him careless for when he met with Mr. Winchester.”

“Captain Fallon imprisoned Mr. Milton and Mr. Winchester in the brig once he regained his faculties,” Captain Badham stated. “They escaped during the first engagement in Santo Domingo. What can you tell us about their behavior at that time?”

“Before the battle, they begged me to let them out. Tried to trick me by claiming it would be for the good of the ship. Mr. Winchester was especially presumptuous, ordering me about as if he was an officer in good standing.

“I do not recall much else about their actions; I was occupied with the guns. I do not know how they got out of the brig, and I do not care to speculate. We were clearly losing when Mr. Milton commanded me to use double shot. I hesitated to comply, but I had no further orders. We could not hit the fort from that angle, so I thought I might as well. It was an ingenious plan, I admit. The recoil from the double shot helped us get back into the water. We had run aground, you see.”

“Mr. Milton,” Bobby said, “will you remind me of how the plan was formulated?”

Castiel jumped, startled at being addressed. “It was Mr. Winchester’s idea, sir. I saw the obvious benefits and so advocated for it."

“Thank you, Mr. Milton.”

Captain Roman inquired, “Mr. Crowley, can you please inform us of your experiences during the second attack on the fort?”

“Certainly, sir. As I understand it, the whole thing was Mr. Winchester’s idea. He charmed the other lieutenants into supporting it, and so Mr. Godwin put the plan into action.

“To be fair, I must give him credit for the victory. He located an underground tunnel that led into the fort. I helped blow it up so that our party, which consisted of Mr. Winchester, Mr. Wesson, Mr. Milligan, Mr. Rhodes, and myself, could enter. We then took the fort.

“After our victory, Mr. Godwin ordered Mr. Winchester to blow up the fort and told the other lieutenants to board the ship. Mr. Milton and Mr. Wesson were most disobedient, remaining behind to assist Mr. Winchester.”

“Mr. Wesson is not on trial here, Mr. Crowley,” Bobby reminded the gunner.

“Yes, sir. I was merely recounting events; I had no intention of denigrating Mr. Wesson’s character.”

“How did Mr. Milton justify himself to Mr. Godwin?” Captain Badham asked.

“He claimed to believe Mr. Winchester needed the assistance. This, even though Mr. Godwin had judged the job suitable for one man.”

“Thank you, Mr. Crowley. That will be all for today.”

The tribunal dismissed the proceedings, and Castiel hid a yawn behind his hand. So far, the trial had been both nerve-wracking and tiresome. Captain Badham gazed at Castiel with disapproval, but luckily the other judges had not noticed his brief demonstration of weariness. Dean sighed, and his eyes flicked to Castiel’s. Not for the first time, Castiel marveled at the beautiful jade hue of his orbs. They contained a trace of fear, but when they focused on Castiel, affection rose to the surface. Castiel felt a warmth blossoming in his chest. He grinned at Dean, who responded with a wan smile of his own. Clearly, Dean was just as exhausted as Castiel, if not more so.

After they left the courtroom, a guard accompanied Dean and Castiel to Sam’s quarters and waited for them outside. Sam appeared to be in much better spirits than yesterday, which heartened Castiel. Thankfully, his deterioration on the ship had not been a sign of things to come.

“How did the trial go today?” Sam inquired.

Dean sank into one of the chairs by Sam’s bed and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about the damn trial,” he muttered. “Let’s discuss something else, hmm?”

“I quite agree,” Castiel said as he perched on the seat next to Dean. He felt a headache developing at his temple, and he massaged the area with two fingers until the pain dissipated.

Sam frowned. “If that is what you want.” His eyes brightened, and he turned to Castiel. “It occurs to me that I do not know much about your family, Cas. What is your father’s vocation? Do you have any siblings?”

Castiel blinked, surprised that Sam wished to know intimate details about his family. “My parents are dead,” he said softly. “I never knew my mother. My father was a clergyman.” He swallowed and glanced at Dean, who looked sympathetic. “I have two older sisters. Anna and Rachel.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Really? Are they married?”

Castiel did not answer the question. He did not want to elaborate on his family’s struggles. He had shared them with Dean, but his relationship with Dean was different than his relationship with Sam. He would never kiss Sam, for one. Castiel blushed at the thought.

Dean’s encouraging expression gave Castiel the strength to answer. “No. Rachel isn’t, but Anna . . . she and her husband are estranged. He treated her abominably.” Castiel bit his lip. That Michael Grey would _dare_ to hurt his sisters . . . fury bubbled underneath his skin.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“This conversation is too depressing,” Dean opined. “How about this. What will we do once we arrive back in England?”

“Dean, we might not—” Sam began.

Dean held up a hand. “I won’t hear it, Sammy. We need some fun. I would see Mama first, obviously. She would make me my favorite apple pie, as she always does.” He smiled wistfully. “I can’t wait.”

Soon, all three of them were sharing what they desired upon their return to England. Each man wanted to spend time with his family first and foremost. Then they blurted out favorite foods and pastimes. When their time with Sam was over, Castiel and Dean departed with lighter hearts.

Next, Uriel Godwin was summoned to the stand. Captain Badham commenced the questioning, asking if Godwin could recall any instances of mutinous talk amongst the other lieutenants. Godwin answered no, such discussions had not occurred in his presence. Captain Roman then took over by establishing how Godwin had come to be acting captain. Godwin claimed he had not been looking for the office, and he had been just as astonished as Captain Fallon when the mantle had been hoisted upon him.

“When you were acting captain,” Captain Roman inquired, “how did the other lieutenants treat you, and how did you treat them?”

“I sought out their advice, just as many a captain would,” Godwin replied. “After the disaster in Samana Bay, I consulted with them and decided that we should set our course for Kingston. Mr. Milton agreed with me, but Mr. Winchester had come up with this cockeyed scheme to take Santo Domingo. Mr. Wesson supported him.” Bobby narrowed his eyes at Godwin, and Castiel remembered yesterday, when he had warned Crowley that Sam was not on trial. He seemed poised to do the same with Godwin, but before he could say anything, Godwin continued, “I do not blame the boy; it is only natural that he should follow his cousin’s lead. And the plan did have its merits. During his watch, Mr. Milton somehow became convinced of the plan’s benefits, and he argued them to me. As you know, we did carry out the assault, and we won.”

“Why cast aspersions on Mr. Winchester’s plan if it worked?” Bobby queried.

“I cast no aspersions. It was a fine plan, thought it almost resulted in ruinous defeat.”

“As I understand it, that is mostly due to you, Mr. Godwin. Fire from the _Renown_ alerted the Spanish of your presence.”

“I could not help it,” Godwin sulked. “Some treasonous slaves had stolen our boats and were holding some of our men hostage.”

“But surely you could have stopped them without drawing attention to yourself.” Godwin gritted his teeth and remained silent.

“How did Mr. Winchester and Mr. Milton behave toward you once you became acting captain?” Captain Badham asked.

“It was clear that they viewed me with the utmost disdain. They did what they wished, regardless of my orders. They acted as if they were in charge of the ship, not I.”

“You . . . you . . . ” Castiel stammered under his breath. Godwin had threatened to portray him and Dean in a negative light, but Castiel had never thought Godwin would stoop to lying. Or testify so boldly against them, for that matter. How ungrateful could a man be? He had been acting captain only because of Castiel and Dean’s actions during the first battle. Besides, Castiel and Dean had never disrespected him. Castiel understood that Godwin was embarrassed about his ineptitude during his tenure as acting captain, but that did not give him the right to fabricate stories about Castiel and Dean.

“Cas,” Dean whispered to him. “Calm down.” Only then did Castiel realize he had balled his hands into fists. He unfurled them and attempted to relax.

The tribunal established more details about Godwin’s actions as acting captain, laughing when they heard about Godwin being tied up by the Spanish prisoners because he had been asleep. Godwin took every opportunity he could to criticize Castiel and Dean.

When the proceedings were done for the day, a guard guided Castiel and Dean toward their cell.

“Wait a minute,” Dean said as they walked. “Don’t we get to visit Sam today?”

“The doctor is with him right now,” the guard informed them. “Perhaps you might have a chance to see him once the doctor is finished.”

“The doctor? Is he all right?”

“He’s just checking up on Mr. Wesson. Routine visits are needed to ensure his sustained recovery.”

Once they were locked inside their cell, they collapsed onto their beds. Castiel closed his eyes, exhausted. He heard the cell door swing open and wondered who had come inside.

“Dean,” a voice said. It sounded like Bobby. Castiel opened his eyes. “I need to talk to you. Alone. I’ve asked a guard to come and take Cas and watch him.”

On his bed, Dean bolted upright and gave Bobby a considering look. “No. Whatever you’ve got to say to me, you can say in front of him.” He laughed uneasily. “I would probably just tell him anyway.”

Bobby sat on the bed next to Dean. “They’re going to call you to the stand tomorrow, Dean.”

Dean shrugged and attempted a smile, but it manifested as a grimace instead. “I knew they were going to call me sometime.”

“They’re going to ask you if you pushed Captain Fallon down the hatchway. I told the other captains I didn’t think it wise—no one ever gets asked directly. But they insisted.”

Dean tried to school his face into neutrality, but he still appeared shaken. “I suppose it should be no surprise, though,” Dean mused. Bobby gazed at him in confusion. “That is what they are most concerned about, is it not?”

Bobby patted Dean on the shoulder and sighed. “I just felt like I should warn you. Good luck, son.”

“Thank you, Bobby.”

After Bobby departed, Castiel perched on the edge of his bed and faced Dean. “What are you going to say tomorrow, Dean?”

Dean shrugged again. “I can’t exactly say I don’t know, can I?” He barked a mirthless laugh.

“You still do not remember.”

“No.”

Castiel wanted to embrace Dean to show his support, but they did not know when a guard would arrive to take them to Sam. “Then what will you do tomorrow?”

“Tell them the truth.”

“But you do not know the truth.”

“That’s right. But they will get the truth they want.”

 _They will get the truth they want_. What did that mean? He was going to confess, wasn’t he? A cold dread shoved itself down Castiel’s throat.

Any doubt Castiel had about Dean’s plans vanished when a guard came to lead them to Sam. Castiel walked toward the doorway, pausing when Dean made no move to stand up. “Aren’t you coming, Dean?”

Dean shook his head, his eyes devoid of life. Castiel’s heart burned, and he brushed his fingertips over the fabric covering it. “I don’t want to see Sammy like this, not when I . . . knowing what my fate is.” He lowered his voice, and Castiel barely heard him. “I cannot face him.”

Castiel inclined his head. “I understand.” He followed the guard to Sam’s quarters, where he quietly sank into a chair. Sam looked much worse than yesterday, with dark circles under his feverish eyes and sweat coating his brow. He coughed into a handkerchief, and Castiel noted the drops of blood on it. “Sam. What happened?”

Instead of answering the question, Sam asked, “Where is Dean?”

Castiel swallowed. What should he tell Sam? “He did not wish to come.” Sam wrinkled his brow, and Castiel stared down at his hands. “They are going to ask him about Captain Fallon’s fall, and he . . . ” Castiel glanced up at Sam, his eyes watering as he whispered, “I think he is going to say he pushed the captain.”

Sam pondered this news for a minute. “Did he?”

Castiel shook his head. “I do not know, and I do not think he does, either.” Sam raised his eyebrows. “He does not remember.”

Sam erupted into a fresh coughing fit, and more blood coated the handkerchief. They remained silent for a while, until Sam finally said, “Let me confess.”

“What?” Castiel gasped.

“Tomorrow. Let me say I pushed Captain Fallon.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. “ _No_.”

Sam gestured toward himself, and again he coughed up blood. “I’m going to die anyway.”

“No. That is not true. You were doing so well yesterday, and—”

Sam scoffed, and droplets of blood spilled from his mouth. “The doctor told me my chances were not good. He said there would be days when I would seem to be getting better, but ultimately I would not survive. If my initial treatment had been better, he said . . . well. It does not good to speculate now.”

“Sam. You can get through this,” Castiel pleaded.

Sam shook his head and offered the ghost of a smile. “No.” Hazel eyes, sparkling with moisture, met Castiel’s. “Let me do this,” Sam beseeched him. “Let my death mean something. Please?”

Against his wishes, Castiel found himself nodding. “All right,” Castiel murmured, his voice breaking on the two syllables.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Promise to take care of my cousin?” Castiel gaped at him. He sounded as if he was insinuating something. “I am not oblivious. I see the looks you two give each other. I am glad Dean has someone like you, Cas. You will take care of him, won’t you?”

Castiel nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Thank you,” Sam mumbled as he closed his eyes. He didn’t witness the tears cascading down Castiel’s cheeks.

Castiel felt claustrophobic as he followed Dean into the courtroom. He didn’t know how Dean would react to Sam’s testimony, but regardless, Dean would be devastated. Castiel had to steel himself so he wouldn’t give in to sheer panic. He wished he had talked Sam out of his plan instead of assenting so readily to it. As everyone took their seats, he glanced at Dean, who seemed to be bracing himself for today’s questioning. Once everyone had settled, Castiel heard the door to the courtroom open behind him. He twisted around and faced the new arrival: Sam, who leaned on a cane as he hobbled down the aisle splitting the seating in half.

“Sammy?” Dean whispered, puzzled.

Castiel bit his lip as he turned back around. This was it. If only it were a dream.

“The court would like to call Lieutenant Sam Wesson to the stand,” Captain Badham proclaimed. Dean’s mouth hung open as Sam continued his progress toward the front of the courtroom. Bobby graced Sam with a pained, sympathetic look. Clearly, he had a great deal of affection for Sam, just as he did for Dean.

“Mr. Wesson. You said you had something you wished to tell us?” Captain Roman prompted once Sam had made his way up to the front.

“Yes, Captain.” He eyed Dean and Castiel, offering them a shaky grin. “It concerns Captain Fallon. Dean—Lieutenant Winchester—didn’t push him down the hatchway. I did.”

Loud murmuring exploded in the courtroom, and Dean stared straight ahead, stupefied. “Order!” Bobby shouted, and everyone fell silent.

“I highly doubt that,” Captain Badham chimed in, frowning. “How else does one explain the suspicious behavior of Mr. Winchester and Mr. Milton?”

“They were trying to protect me,” Sam claimed. “But I cannot let them suffer for a crime I committed.”

“Sammy, no!” Dean yelled. Castiel clamped a hand over his mouth, and awareness dawned in Dean’s eyes. _Betrayal_ , they screamed, and it took all of Castiel’s strength not to cry out. Tears leaked from Castiel’s eyes, but Dean’s expression only hardened.

The tribunal dismissed the proceedings, saying they needed to deliberate about this latest development. When they exited the courtroom, Dean scrambled away from Castiel. He approached Sam, who avoided Dean’s gaze and wouldn’t speak. That only made Dean bristle with more manic energy.

When they returned to the courtroom, Bobby read aloud from a statement, his voice gruffer than usual. “In light of Lieutenant Sam Wesson’s testimony, we believe these proceedings have reached a natural conclusion. For the attempted murder of Captain Lucas Fallon, Mr. Wesson is sentenced to hang by the neck until he is dead.” From across the courtroom, Dean released a loud sob. Bobby’s own eyes watered, but he cleared his throat, and his eyes dried. “As aiders and abettors, Lieutenants Castiel Milton and Dean Winchester are sentenced to nine months of probation, during which time they will receive neither work nor pay. We acknowledge that this verdict is most unusual, but this is a most unusual case.”

Bobby declared that Sam would be hanged tomorrow morning, and then a guard escorted Dean and Castiel back to their cell, where Dean pretended as if Castiel did not exist.


	13. Sacrificial Lamb

That night, a guard came to fetch them for their visit to Sam.

Their last visit to Sam.

Castiel restrained the urge to weep. No doubt Dean felt ten times more heartbroken than he did. He had to be strong for Dean. He had promised Sam he would take care of Dean, and he would fulfill that promise.

During their walk to Sam’s quarters, Dean was a bundle of anger and hurt. He would not even look at Castiel.

When they entered Sam’s room, Dean approached Sam, hands curled into fists by his side. Castiel stood by the door, not wanting to intrude.

“Sam—” Dean rasped.

Sam glanced at Castiel before inclining his head toward Dean. “Don’t be mad at Cas, Dean.” Dean’s mouth hung open in astonishment. “I know you as well as I know myself, Dean. I can see that you are mad at him. But please don’t be.”

“Why not?” Dean thundered. He glowered at Castiel. “He betrayed me, betrayed _us_ , by letting you behave so foolishly.”

“I am an adult, Dean. I can make my own decisions. This is what I wanted.”

“To _throw your life away_?!”

Sam smiled grimly. “I’m dying, Dean.”

Dean blinked. “No, you’re not.”

As if on cue, Sam coughed, and he held a handkerchief to his mouth. Blood stained it. Dean raised his eyebrows at the sight. “No, Dean. It’s true.”

“But you were doing so well! You were getting better. Weren’t you? This—” He waved his hand toward Sam’s handkerchief. “—is a minor relapse.”

“No, Dean, it’s not. The doctor says my chances of living are slim.”

“But there’s still a _chance_!”

“Should I really have let you die for my small chance?” Dean remained silent, but the answer permeated the air. He and Sam both knew Dean would sacrifice himself before he allowed anyone else to get hurt.

“Dean,” Sam tried again. “My injuries are fatal. Maybe I would live for a while, with a series of ups and downs. But the term would be long and drawn out. Tomorrow—” Dean flinched at the word, but Sam ignored him. “—my end will be instantaneous. Out of those two options, I prefer the latter.”

“But Sammy,” Dean said in a strangled voice. “What if I did push Captain Fallon? I would deserve the noose, wouldn’t I?” Sam gazed back at him. “I did do it, Sammy. I did push him,” he declared firmly.

Sam shook his head and grinned sadly. “No, Dean. Cas told me you didn’t know.” Dean opened his mouth, but Sam held up a hand. “It doesn’t matter either way. You deserve to be saved.” Dean scoffed, and Castiel’s heart ached. Dean always put others before himself, and he thought so little of himself, too. “Cas was only doing what I asked. Keep him. You two are good for each other.” Dean’s eyes widened. “Yes, Dean. I know that you and Cas are . . . more than friends.” He smiled, and the motion reached his eyes. “You have my blessing. Both of you.” He closed his eyes and said, “I am ready for tomorrow.”

Castiel was not ready for tomorrow, and neither was Dean. He was afraid Dean would be irreparably shattered.

In the predawn light, a sizable crowd had gathered around the ladder and noose in the yard of the Admiralty. Many of the individuals were ordinary citizens of Kingston; Castiel noted a few families scattered around the premises. He shuddered, remembering the hanging Father had once taken him and his sisters to. He recalled the fear in the man’s eyes, the horror he had felt as the offender had choked to death, Father’s whispers that hell would be ten times worse than what that man had endured during his drawn-out death. And now he would have to see Sam like that, and children shouldn’t be here, and—

Lieutenant Godwin caught his eye and sneered. Crowley rubbed his hands together gleefully, as if Sam’s hanging was nothing more than a spectacle for his entertainment. Dr. Angle looked a little more subdued, albeit drunk. He glanced askance at Dean. Clearly, he thought Dean to be the guilty party and felt as if he was escaping justice.

Castiel enclosed a hand around Dean’s wrist. Dean tried to shake it off, but Castiel refused to let go. He was determined to be at Dean’s side when Sam was hanged. Eventually, Dean stopped struggling, and they jostled through the thick mass of people until they stood at the front. They owed it to Sam to be here for him during his last minutes. Though it was early, the heat was still oppressive, and Castiel wiped the sweat off of his brow.

When the executioner led Sam out, tears fell down Castiel’s cheeks. To prevent himself from sobbing, he bit his lip so hard that he tasted the metallic tang of blood. Beside him, Dean was openly weeping. He attempted to soothe Dean by massaging Dean’s wrist with his index finger, but Dean did not react.

Castiel understood. He was losing a brother today. Sam looked so pale, and even now he was coughing blood into a handkerchief.

“Why must they hang him when he is in such a condition?” Dean whispered. He sniffled. “It is cruel.”

Castiel licked the blood off of his lip. “I do not know,” he whispered back. _This isn’t fair. None of this is fair._ If there were justice in this world, Sam would have recovered. Adam Milligan would be alive, and Godwin and Crowley wouldn’t be eagerly anticipating the hanging of Sam Wesson. Bobby would not have dismissed their reports about Captain Fallon’s behavior, and no one would have been on trial.

Castiel spotted Bobby in a far corner; the captain appeared uneasy. If he felt so much sorrow for Sam, why had he allowed the tribunal to pass the sentence it had?

Castiel knew why. It was just as he had said on that pivotal night on the _Renown_. It felt so long ago now, but his words had come to pass: Sam was the sacrificial lamb, a way of preserving Captain Fallon’s reputation at any cost.

Elsewhere in the crowd, Castiel saw Captains Badham and Roman, their countenances serious yet satisfied. For the first time in his life, Castiel felt contempt for the institution, the structure of the Royal Navy.

“Do you have any last words, Mr. Wesson?” the executioner asked.

“Yes,” Sam said through heavy, labored breathing. His eyes met Dean’s. “Just this. I’m proud of us.” He offered a rueful smile. Castiel heard someone scoff behind them. He whirled around and discovered that the offender was Crowley. He scowled at the gunner, and Crowley responded with an impish grin.

The executioner tossed the noose around Sam’s neck and directed the driver of the contraption beneath to move. Castiel’s eyes slammed closed reflexively, but he forced them back open. Sam deserved for his sacrifice to be acknowledged.

As the rope strangled him, Sam made a horrifying gasping sound that Castiel would never forget. Sam struggled for a few minutes, and Castiel felt sick. Sam’s face grew mottled with patches of purple, his lips trembling. Castiel dropped Dean’s wrist and clenched his hands into fists, the nails digging into his palms.

He wished he could trade places with Sam. Anything to take that pain away from him.

Dean must be experiencing the same feeling, magnified. Castiel would have to put aside his misgivings and stay strong for Dean.

Finally, Sam’s body grew slack.

“Sammy?” Dean whimpered, sounding as if he had just realized Sam was never coming back.

The townspeople and members of the navy dispersed, leaving Castiel and Dean alone with the crew now handling Sam’s corpse. Castiel maneuvered Dean around so he couldn’t watch and suggested, “Let us find our living quarters.” Since he and Dean were no longer being held prisoner, they would stay at an inn in Kingston until the next ship departed for London. The Admiralty had given them the address of a place and sent their belongings ahead.

Dean didn’t speak, but he followed Castiel until they reached a nondescript red brick edifice. The proprietor told them where their room was located, and Castiel led Dean upstairs to the room at the end of the hallway. He opened the door and prodded Dean inside before entering. After he shut the door, he surveyed the spare room. There was an old wooden desk with a chair to match and one bed large enough for two. It was not uncommon for travelers to share beds, but something about this room made Castiel nervous, as if it would reveal his and Dean’s secrets for all to see. Castiel sat on the bed and gazed up at Dean as he contemplated what they should do next.

“You son of a bitch,” Dean said in a quiet voice. A menacing voice. Dean stared down at him with hard eyes, and Castiel shuddered. Dean pointed at him. “This is your fault.”

“I—” Castiel breathed, but he found he could not justify himself.

“You should have talked him out of it.”

And that was true, wasn’t it? Castiel had not made much of an effort to dissuade Sam from his path. Perhaps it had been selfishness, a desire to keep Dean. Castiel felt rotten inside. “I’m sorry,” Castiel whispered. A tear trickled down his cheek. “Sam was my friend, too.”

“You sure didn’t act like it.” Dean stepped closer and swung his arm. His fist slammed into Castiel’s eye, and Castiel clapped a hand over it, wincing at the pain and cringing as Dean aimed another blow at him. This time, he struck Castiel’s jaw.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel uttered again. He covered his face with his arms, but Dean yanked them out of the way as he thrust Castiel onto his back. He rained blows all over Castiel’s body, and Castiel lay there, positioning himself to allow Dean to do what he would. Castiel deserved to be punished.

At one point, Dean kissed Castiel. A bruising, cruel kiss, meant to hurt. He bit Castiel’s lip, drawing blood. He did the same with his neck, on several spots, ripping into the skin with his teeth. He licked the blood off at first, but then he let it flow freely. Droplets fell onto Castiel’s uniform, but still Castiel did not resist.

“What do you think?” Dean jeered. “Have you had enough?”

“More,” Castiel croaked. He wanted to feel the pain. It paled in comparison to what Sam had suffered.

Dean removed Castiel’s coat and rolled his shirt up. Castiel closed his eyes and did not ask Dean about his plans. Without exception, he would take what Dean doled out to him.

Castiel felt something slicing a line on his chest, and he gritted his teeth to prevent himself from crying out. But oh, it hurt. He could feel the blood oozing out of the wound. His eyes flew open and met Dean’s. They were empty. Dean continued carving the line until the knife he held suddenly clattered to the floor.

“Oh, God. Cas. What have I done?” Dean shrank away from him.

Castiel bolted upright, ignoring the wound on his chest. “It’s all right, Dean.”

Dean shook his head, his eyes wide. “No. It’s not.” He threw open the door and fled the room.

“Please don’t leave, Dean!” Castiel called after him. He didn’t have the strength to chase him. Castiel hobbled to the door and shut it before tearing off his shirt, which he used to staunch the wound on his chest. He dug around in his belongings until he found a handkerchief with which to wipe off the rest of the blood.

He collapsed on the bed. He wanted to search for Dean, but everything had exhausted him. Surely Dean would come back. His possessions were still here.

When Castiel awoke, he had no idea whether it was day or night. He had not even been aware he’d fallen asleep. He’d stayed awake for as long as he could, waiting for Dean to return. But Dean had not done so, and at least twenty-four hours must have passed.

The gash on his chest must have reopened in his sleep; dried blood surrounded it. His stomach rumbled, and Castiel realized he had not eaten since before Dean had left. He tumbled out of bed and cleaned his chest then tore a white tunic into strips, some of which he used to bandage his wound. Then he lumbered downstairs, where he learned that it was the middle of the afternoon. He ordered beef stew and a tankard of ale and chose a seat in the corner of the dining room. He should go look for Dean, he decided, and he hurried to finish his repast so he could start on the search.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” a familiar voice derided. Castiel glanced up at the countenance of Lieutenant Uriel Godwin.

All of his rage and resentment and hate and hurt chose this moment to congregate together in his consciousness, directing itself at Uriel Godwin. Godwin had testified against him and Dean. The cousins and Castiel had been under the impression that the lieutenants would stick together in this affair, but Godwin had betrayed them. Perhaps if he had backed up Castiel’s and Dean’s accounts, the tribunal might not have been able to piece together a plausible excuse for hanging anyone.

“How does it feel to have Mr. Wesson die for the sins of you and Mr. Winchester?”

“You,” Castiel hissed, standing up. “You turned on us.”

Godwin shrugged. “I told the honest truth.”

“Liar!” Castiel yelled, baring his teeth. He punched Godwin in the nose, and Godwin’s visage hardened.

“Now we see your true nature, Mr. Milton. You are nothing but a common thug.” He gestured at Castiel’s eye. “I gather you have already shown everyone. What did you do to the other man, hmm? Knock out a few of his teeth?”

Castiel gazed balefully back at Godwin. _You know not of what you speak_. He hurled another punch at the lieutenant, and another, and Godwin struck back. Eventually, Castiel knocked Godwin onto his back. “You—” Castiel snarled, emphasizing the word with a kick to the side. “son—” Kick. “of—” Kick. “a—” Kick. “bitch.” Kick.

The proprietor threw his arms around Castiel and pulled him away from Godwin. “You,” the man said. “If you misbehave one more time, you will no longer be welcome in this establishment.”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel replied, eyes on the wooden slats of the floor. “I’m sorry.” But he wasn’t sorry, not completely. He was sorry for disturbing the innkeeper and his patrons, but not for the behavior in and of itself.

Godwin chuckled.

Castiel was unraveling.

For the past two days, he had roamed Kingston looking for Dean, but to no avail. He opened a bottle of rum he had purchased at the market when stocking up on supplies and took a generous swig.

In the past, writing in his journal had helped him cope, and he decided to try that now. He dug the journal and a quill out of one of his bags and sat down at the desk, placing the bottle on its surface.

_Was I wrong to allow Sam to sacrifice himself?_

_Dean was right. I didn’t try to stop him. I should have. I could have saved him._

_But then Dean would have hanged._

_And that is the crux of it. I think I might be an awful person. I didn’t object to Sam’s plan because I chose Dean over him. That was selfish and sinful._

_But if Sam was going to die from his injuries anyway—_

_No. Dean had been right. There is always a chance of survival, and I took that opportunity from Sam._

_I hate the Admiralty for placing me in this position. If they had not felt the need to preserve Captain Fallon’s reputation, then this situation might not have existed. Damn politics._

_Damn the Admiralty. Damn Dr. Angle. Damn Crowley. Damn Godwin._

_Damn Captain Lucas Fallon._

_I am alone now. I don’t know what to do._

_What would Father say? I feel as if he is laughing at me from beyond the grave._

_He would tell me that this is my punishment for falling to the very bottom of the depths of sin. Have I? I feel guilty, but not for anything Father would disapprove of. It’s Sam’s fate that plagues me._

Loud knocking interrupted Castiel’s sleep. The empty bottle dangling from the tips of his fingers crashed to the floor, and Castiel cursed. He stepped carefully around the glass and rushed to the door, hoping it was Dean.

A brown-haired boy stood on the other side of the door. Maybe he knew where Dean was. “Hello?” Castiel ventured.

The boy looked unimpressed by Castiel’s no doubt bedraggled appearance, complete with tousled hair and bloodshot eyes. “Are you Lieutenant Castiel Milton?”

“Yes.” He tilted his head to the side as he considered the boy. “What is it?”

“The Admiralty requests your presence, sir. As soon as is convenient.”

Castiel blinked. He must have heard the boy incorrectly. “What did you say?”

The boy donned the expression of long-suffering patience. “The Admiralty requests your presence as soon as is convenient. Sir.”

Castiel nodded. “Thank you.” The boy stood there expectantly, and Castiel realized he desired payment. He scrounged through his meager stock and plucked out a halfpenny, which he handed to the boy.

After the boy left, Castiel washed his face as he tried to sober up. He donned his uniform and began his stroll toward the Admiralty.

What the hell would they want with him? Did they wish to charge him with another crime? If so, what? Did they have news of Dean? He had been missing for four days now. But if they did have news, would they summon Castiel?

Inside the Admiralty, he was directed to Captain Bobby Singer’s office. He attempted to quiet his nerves as he approached the room and knocked.

“Come in,” Bobby yelled. Castiel obeyed. Bobby turned to face him and smiled. He indicated the chair in front of his desk and urged, “Sit down.” After Castiel did so, Bobby narrowed his eyes and studied him. “Where did you get that black eye?” Castiel gazed back at him and remained silent. He sighed. “Well, son. This is for you.” He passed Castiel an envelope.

Castiel broke the seal and read the contents, his eyes widening. According to the document, he would be promoted to commander once his probationary period had elapsed. “What is this?”

“I was under the impression that you are literate.”

Castiel gaped at him. “I am. Sir.” Bobby scowled. “Bobby,” he amended, and Bobby looked satisfied. “I just—I don’t understand.”

“Despite the deplorable—circumstances—of the _Renown_ , we were impressed by your actions in Santo Domingo. You secured the victory.”

That was preposterous. “But that wasn’t my doing. It was Dean’s. He thought of the maneuvers that allowed us to defeat the Spanish.”

“But you were his superior officer.”

“And Lieutenant Godwin was mine. Has he been promoted as well?”

Bobby grunted. “No. He was a bumbling fool. Who sleeps through a prisoner uprising?”

“But according to your logic, Mr. Godwin should be promoted for letting me act as I did.”

“The _Renown_ emerged victorious _in spite of_ him _._ ”

“Perhaps Dean could carry out his plans in spite of me as well.”

“That is not how it seemed to occur. His plans were executed because you advocated for them. Because you agreed to them.” He paused and studied Castiel. “A good captain needs to know how to listen as well as give orders. You, Cas, possess that quality.”

Castiel did not know what to say. He was not even sure he wanted to stay in the Royal Navy, now that he thought about it. Not after how it had treated Sam. But what else could he do? He was not qualified for anything that would pay as well. Besides, he did enjoy life at sea. And if he commanded his own vessel, then he could set up a fair operation. Perhaps he could build a better model than Fallon’s, and others would see its virtues.

“I can tell you want to say no,” Bobby said. Castiel gave him a confused look, and he said, “The indignation is all over your face, son.”

Castiel wrung his hands. “I just—” Why not be honest with Bobby? Castiel did not care about the consequences, and Bobby seemed decent. Yet he had been complicit in Sam’s death. “I do not like what happened with Sam.”

Bobby sighed. “Neither do I.”

“But—”

Bobby held up a hand. “A tribunal is made up of three people, and Captains Badham and Roman desired ‘justice’ for Captain Fallon.

“Sam is a brave lad. I am sure he will be remembered as the noble boy he was.”

“But the records will depict him as a traitor.”

“To those of us who knew him, he will be nothing of the sort.”

Castiel wasn’t sure whether that was sufficient, but apparently Bobby thought so. He tendered his good-byes and walked back to the inn. When he threw open the door to his room, a figure was standing inside.

 _Dean_.

“Hello, Cas,” Dean rasped.

Castiel placed the envelope on the desk and embraced Dean. “I was so worried,” Castiel muttered into Dean’s hair.

Dean drew back and examined Castiel. He stroked the area around Castiel’s eye and said sadly, “I did this to you.”

“It’s all right.”

“No. It’s not.” He eyed the empty bottles on the desk, and his eyes watered. “Oh, God.” He turned back to Castiel. “I’m sorry, Cas. I shouldn’t have done that to you.”

Castiel cupped Dean’s face in his hands and ran his thumbs along Dean’s cheekbones. Dean looked awful, with untamed reddish scruff and huge bags under his dull, haunted green eyes. His clothes were torn and filthy.

“It’s all right,” Castiel soothed again.

“How can you say that? After what I did?”

“I love you.” Stunned by the words that had just flown from his mouth, Castiel withdrew his hands from Dean’s skin and hugged himself, eyes darting around uncertainly.

He realized that he had spoken the truth. He loved Dean so deeply that it scared him. He couldn’t pinpoint when his regard for Dean had turned into love, yet now that love was firmly rooted in his heart.

Dean swallowed. In a choked voice, he said, “No, Cas. Please don’t. I’m no good.”

Once again, Castiel cradled Dean’s face in his hands. He leaned in, rested his forehead against Dean’s, and breathed, “Let me be the judge of that, hmm?” His lips brushed Dean’s in a brief, gentle kiss. “You are the most wonderful man I have ever met,” Castiel professed. “I love you,” he whispered against Dean’s lips. Puffs of Dean’s breath caressed his skin, and Castiel treasured their closeness. He inhaled Dean’s scent, so distinct even amidst the mixture of smells Dean had accrued during his time away.

“I don’t deserve you,” Dean murmured.

“Don’t think like that.” Castiel planted his lips on Dean’s, tongue pressing insistently until Dean’s mouth cracked open. His tongue snaked inside, and he tasted as much of Dean as he could. Dean maintained the kiss as he gripped Castiel’s biceps and guided them toward the bed.

Neither of them would let go.

Dean shoved Castiel onto his back. Castiel stared at the ceiling and contemplated his actions. What he was inviting Dean to do—what he _wanted_ Dean to do. Before his time on the _Renown_ , Castiel might have viewed his current behavior as sinful.

But this felt right. Natural.

Father would say he had completely fallen. That he was a degenerate.

Well, Father had often told Castiel that he belonged to the devil.

But Castiel felt it to the core—this was right. God would agree.

Dean’s lips traveled from Castiel’s mouth to nip at his chin then his neck. He turned down the collar of Castiel’s coat and with teeth scraped over his clavicle before groaning.

With one finger, Dean traced the faint indentations he had left when he had attacked Castiel. Fresh tears rolled down Dean’s cheeks. “I did this to you, too. I’m so sorry.”

“It is in the past,” Castiel assured him.

Dean frowned as he tugged at Castiel’s coat. Castiel raised himself up so Dean could draw first it off, then the tunic. Dean stared at the makeshift bandage on Castiel’s chest, his expression horrified. “I used my dagger on you.”

Castiel grasped one of Dean’s hands. “It is in the past,” he repeated, hoping he sounded firm enough to prevent Dean from dwelling on his actions.

“I am no better than your bastard of a father,” Dean choked out.

Castiel massaged Dean’s hand between both of his. “You are nothing like him.” He buried a hand in Dean’s hair and initiated another kiss. Castiel felt Dean’s hand threading through his hair, and he sighed contentedly.

They crashed into each other, bodies moving instinctively, mouths running over lips and skin, slaking a thirst only the other man could satisfy.

They stripped every article of clothing away, pace alternating between leisurely and frantic. They couldn’t wait to dissolve the boundaries between them, yet they wanted to savor each second. The feel of the other man’s chest underneath their hands, the sensitive responses of the other man’s thighs, the adulation in the other man’s eyes.

Castiel thrust upward, rubbing his penis against Dean’s. “God, Cas,” Dean moaned.

A dollop of liquid leaked out of Cas. “Dean.” He dragged Dean downward, nibbled on Dean’s earlobe, and whispered, “I want you inside me.”

Dean shot upright. “God, Cas!” A drop of liquid burst out of Dean’s penis. “You can’t say stuff like that. We can’t; we would need—”

“A lubricant, I know.” Dean gawked at him. He propped himself up on an elbow. “There is some olive oil in my belongings. Find it.”

“Olive oil—?” After pondering Castiel’s words for a minute, he laughed. “You were optimistic, weren’t you?” he gibed as he bounded off the bed.

“Wishful.” During his visit to the market, Castiel had overheard two sailors discussing sexual relations between men. According to them, olive oil was an excellent lubricant.

Dean reddened when he returned to the bed. “I am a little unsure about how this works.”

“You have to prepare me with your fingers; then you can be inside me.” Castiel blushed when he thought about the bluntness of this conversation.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “How do you know?”

“Listening.”

“Because that explains so much,” Dean muttered. “All right.” He opened the container and coated his fingers with a generous amount of olive oil. “Lie down.” Castiel obeyed. Dean pushed a finger inside him, and he yelped. Dean removed the finger. “Sorry, Cas. Did I hurt you?”

How should he describe what he had just experienced? “No. It just felt . . . strange.” He paused as he continued to think. “Not unpleasant,” he concluded.

“Such a rousing endorsement,” Dean deadpanned.

“I think perhaps one must get used to it. Please continue.”

Dean’s finger returned. Eventually, a second finger joined it, then a third. Castiel hissed when Dean hit a certain spot inside him.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked. “Did I hurt you?”

Far from it. He had felt . . . transcendent. “Touch it again.”

Dean prodded the area. “Right there?”

“God, yes,” Castiel sighed. When he felt as if the motions were too much, he insisted that Dean insert himself inside now. He did not want to lose himself until he and Dean had fused into one being.

After lathering his member with olive oil, Dean plunged inside. Castiel wrapped his legs around Dean to give him better access as he thrust. Deeper and deeper, with Castiel rising up to meet him, to take in as much of Dean as he could. God, Dean had found that spot again, and Castiel wrapped a hand around his own penis, jerking himself to the rhythm of Dean’s thrusts. Dean swatted his hand away and took over.

Sensation overwhelmed him.

His eyes met Dean’s, and with a shout (“Dean!”), he was lost.

Ejaculate spilled out of him.

He collapsed onto the bed, and soon semen spurted from Dean. “Cas!” he cried. Castiel felt the substance inside himself. He had taken in a part of Dean. He liked the idea.

Neither of them spoke as they caught their breath. Dean cleaned up the mess with his shirt then scooped Castiel into his arms. They leaned against the wall, Castiel resting his head on Dean’s shoulder.

“I love you, too,” Dean said quietly. Castiel tilted his head up to look at him, and Dean grinned self-consciously. “I thought you should know.” Castiel’s lips widened into a smile. “If I ever do anything like that again, though.—” Castiel did not need to inquire what “that” was. Dean shook his head. “—I don’t know. Just don’t forgive me so easily next time.” He looked horrified. “Not that there will be a next time. I don’t want there to be. Oh, God—”

Castiel placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “I know what you meant.” Dean released a shaky breath, and Castiel decided to change the subject. “I was summoned to the Admiralty today.”

“What did they want? If they were charging you with something else—”

“No. I have been promoted to commander. Once my probationary period has passed, that is.”

“Congratulations.”

“I could scarcely believe it, considering the circumstances.”

“That’s good, Cas.”

“I will not have much. Just a cutter. One lieutenant and two midshipmen. But it will be mine.”

“I’m happy for you.” But Dean sounded morose, not happy. Castiel believed he understood his reaction. He thought he knew exactly how to change Dean’s mood.

“Dean.”

“Hmm?”

“I . . . I know it’s just a cutter, and for all practical purposes, it’s less prestigious than your . . . your current . . . what you have been doing. But I would like . . . I would be honored if you would . . . consider—” Castiel swallowed. His nerves were making speech difficult. What if he had misread Dean? “—would you—if you would consider . . . serving as . . . lieutenant with m—m—me.”

Dean beamed, and Castiel released the breath he had been holding. “I would be honored to serve with you, Cas.”

“I have just one request.”

“What’s that?”

“Please do not publicly question me.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “And privately?”

Castiel leaned in so close that their lips were scarcely an inch apart. “Privately, I would appreciate your complete frankness.”

“And?”

“And this.” Castiel stole a kiss. He would never grow tired of tasting Dean.

“Hmm. God, yes.”

Castiel pulled back and said, “When we get back to England, I shall visit my sisters in Chichester. What do you think about accompanying me?”

Dean proffered a soft smile. “I would like that. But I want to visit Mama, too. In London. Do you want to meet her?”

Castiel returned his grin and echoed his words. “I would like that.” He paused before inquiring, “Where have you been during the last four days?”

Dean shrugged. “Here and there. I don’t know, really. I just wandered around. Occasionally I’d wake up in an alley or on the beach.”

Castiel smoothed Dean’s hair back from his forehead. “I am glad you came back to me.”

Castiel had suggested that they do something to honor Sam, so he and Dean found themselves on the beach at dawn, facing the ocean.

“You speak first,” Dean urged.

“You should go first.”

Dean’s bottom lip trembled. “No, you. Please?”

Castiel nodded and searched his memory for the words he’d prepared. “Sam. I knew you for only a short time. But that was long enough. Long enough for you to become a cherished friend. For me to discover that you had a truly radiant soul. I am honored that I had the privilege of knowing you. Sometimes I think—” Castiel wiped away a tear. “—that maybe you were the best of us. And you paid dearly for it. Wherever you are, I hope you are at peace. I will hold you in my heart forever.” Finished, he glanced at Dean. Dean held a necklace aloft, a leather string with a horned-head amulet. When Dean had pulled it out of his bags, Castiel had commented that it looked pagan. Dean had explained that Sam had given it to him when they were boys, and he kept it tucked away to avoid disparaging remarks.

“I’ve never been too good with words,” Dean uttered. He smiled sadly. “That was always you. Forgive me for keeping this short. I love you, Sammy, and I will miss you more than I can say.” He knelt in the sand and dropped the necklace in the water. Dean had told Castiel that it was supposed to resemble a Viking burial, in which the deceased was put in a boat with meaningful paraphernalia. Then the ship was set on fire and pushed out to sea. Dean had thought this ceremony particularly apt given their vocation. Thus, in memoriam of Sam he had wanted to offer a valuable object to the sea.

Castiel knelt next to him, and they gazed into the horizon, watching the tide carry away a piece of Sam and Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commander\--Commander was a higher rank than lieutenant but a lower rank than captain. People often addressed commanders as "captain" because they were often in charge of their own ships, much like a captain. Their ships, though, were smaller and less impressive.
> 
> Cutter\--A small ship with one mast.


End file.
